


She's a Shelby

by brummiebex, buckydeservedmorepassiton (brummiebex)



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2020-10-11 23:13:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 37,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20554247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brummiebex/pseuds/brummiebex, https://archiveofourown.org/users/brummiebex/pseuds/buckydeservedmorepassiton
Summary: This fic is going to be canon-divergent, and is set at the end of season 3/ beginning of season 4. All events are the same, only with the addition of the fic's storyline added where applicable. I don't want to give too much of the plot away, so all I'll say is that this is, in-part, a Tommy/OC fic, but also an Alfie/OC fic, but neither relationship is long term. Prologue (ch.1) gives a bit more context. Hope you all enjoy, xx.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello! Your friendly author here!
> 
> Please excuse any errors, I Beta all of my own work. :D
> 
> xx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's a bit of an introduction:

Hannah Belgrave is a girl born to take chances and break the odds.

She was born of woodsmoke and rosaries, to a drunk lumberman and a gypsy witch, which taught her from young that the world didn’t care what you were inside—it cared what you looked like up front, how dirty you were, what your name was, and what business that named carried along with it.

Unfortunately for her, the Belgraves were not a decent bunch, so their name meant nothing; but they were a proud bunch, which meant they struggled in their own privacy and would be damnedif a single soul would catch wind of their strife.

Even her father, God rest his soul, drank himself silly in the comfort of their tiny flat, never once raising his voice nor his hands at either her or her mother, lest the Andersons on the other side of the paper thin walls overheard and decided to gossip. Oh, but her father was a drunk, through and through; and when you drank that much for that long, you made inebriated decisions, even if you were stark sober. James Belgrave made many dumb, drunk decisions, but crossing Arthur Shelby Sr. was the one that cost him his life.

Hannah remembers it clearly, even though she was hardly half-a-decade old. She remembers her mother hiding her behind a pile of curtains she’d been paid a few pence to hem; she remembers the sounds of the drunken squabble that had ended both of her parent’s lives.

She remembers policemen that came first, and then the nuns they’d taken her to stay with.

Then, she remembered the commotion that led her to meet Ms. Pollyanna Gray, with her long brown curls and kind face. She remembers the yelling, the nun’s vehement protesting, and then being swiftly taken away from the parish, to Watery Lane.

She remembers meeting them—the Shelby children—and only thinking just how much better than her they were.They were perfect— with their clean, thick heads of dark brown hair, and all four of them with their identical beaming blue eyes. 

  
She remembers Arthur’s toothy grin. Tommy’s scowl. John’s snicker. She even remembers Ada’s crinkly eyes, as she smiled at their new sister.


	2. "Bad enough to drag you back to Birmingham, kicking and screaming."

The day started the way any other old day would. Hannah woke up and looked over at her husband, at his blond hair touselled across his head, and contemplates staying in. _She shouldn’t,_ she knows, _they day gets away from you if you don’t busy yourself good and early_.

But when she looks over at him, sprawled out on his back, blond hair strewn out against the white pillows, she can’t help the hand that reaches out to touch it. It settles there, in the silky strands for a moment, but doesn’t stay there. She lets it wander down to his face, where it settles in the divot that’s the plane of his cheek, and uses her thumb to brush across his cheek bone. He stirs in his sleep, and a smile crawls across his lips. 

“Good morning, wife.” He murmurs, voice laden with the lull of sleep. She smiles immediately at the sound.

“Good morning,” She whispers, and leans over, dropping a little kiss on his lips.

He pouts, and groans by way of a little stretch, and reaches up, carding his hand through her hair. “You look beautiful.” 

“Don’t be silly,” she places a hand on his chest and pats, dismissing his compliment. “I’m going to have Emma make us some tea—or did you want coffee?” 

He smiles, and slides his hand down the back of her head, settling on the back of her neck, and reaches his other around to settle on her hip. In a swoop, he’s atop her, straddling her. He dips his neck down and drops a kiss on her neck. “I said you look beautiful this morning, Hannah.” 

His hair, still disheveled from his sleep tickles her neck. “I heard you,” She giggles.

“You heard me,” He repeats and smiles against her skin, pulling the hem of her nightdress up around her belly. “Your husband admires you in _your_ bed, and you ask him if he wants coffee or tea this morning?"

His hand slips under the band of her underwear, and she gasps, “Have you not got to be at the hospital, love?”

“Yes,” he hums into her décolletage with a grin. “But I’d much rather stay here, with you. Can you be bothered?”

His finger traces over somewhere sensitive, she gulps, “I can be bothered.” 

He grins, and sits back, making to pull her dress up and over her head, when a fierce knocking interrupts them. 

“What is it?” Daniel calls out, and Hannah can’t help but grin at the defeat staining her husband’s beautiful features. 

“Mr. Addison,” Emma’s voice is panicked, coming from the other side of the door, “There—there are men downstairs.”

Hannah springs into action—Daniel does too, all be it after sensing Hannah’s panic—sliding into her dressing gown and retrieving the handgun she kept in the nightstand. The two of them move the way they have for years, like the cogs of a machine that laid dormant for months, but still cranked to life when it was needed. She tosses him a pair of trousers, he hands her their box of 9mm rounds. They’re dressed and armed in less than thirty seconds.

Hannah leads down the stairway, because Daniel admitted a _long_ time ago that she was the better shot, and when they hit the landing, she lowers her weapon. 

She stalls in her spot, and drops her hands to her sides, eyeing the men curiously. One glance at them and she knew they weren’t a real threat; they were young, no doubt just following orders. What she couldn’t tell was if they were armed. Their coats were thick, as they should be this far into the winter, but her bet was that they carried fully loaded pistols underneath the tweed material. 

“Why have you tried to give my maid a coronary?” Hannah asks, setting her gun down on the sideboard and fetching her cigarettes from her dressing gown pocket. “She not good with frights.”

Daniel pops down the stairs behind her, still shirtless, just donning an opened dressing coat. He takes a look at Hannah, who no longer looks startled, and decides thats enough for him to continue his morning. “Gentlemen,” he nods, and heads towards the dining room. 

“Mrs. Addison, will you come with us willingly?” The man on the right asks, his voice thick like honey with an Irish tilt. She eyes him suspiciously.

“Depends.” She folds her arms across her chest. “Where are we going?”

Just as she asked it, she realized—the flat caps they both were wearing—as the one on the left shifted, she saw the gleam of steel in the hem. _What have those fuckin’ Shelby boys done now?_

“Fucking hell. Peaky Blinders, in my foyer, in _London?_” She groans, and steps closer to them, regarding the hats and the suits again in this light. ”No, _hell_ no.” 

“I’m sorry miss, I really am, butwe’ve been instructed to—”

“By whom?” She snaps.

“Pardon?”

“Which brother?” She blows the smoke out in a smooth long stripe, annoyed now. If she were going to end up back in Birmingham, she wanted to blame the right one in the trio.

“Well, _all of them_, miss.” 

Dread settles in her gut. Something was wrong, and she could sense it. She told herself that Birmingham was something of the past—somewhere she’d never have to see again. She’d settled as far away from them as she could manage, and here she was, caught on the rare occasion she was even in London.

She drops her voice low—she doubts Daniel was listening, but nonetheless—and asks, “Did they instruct you to make threats, should I refuse?”

“No,” The smaller man on the left says, “He just says it’s urgent—“

“Right then.” She hums. She was alive, so they hadn’t been sent to kill her, evidently. They hadn’t been told to threaten or maim, either. Deciding that was rare enough for the Shelbys, she thinks it’s enough for her, so she nods. “Let me at least get a dress on.” 

* * *

The drive to Birmingham was to be expected—not too long, nostalgic but not in the best way. The car turned onto Watery Lane, and chills racked her body. She stepped out onto the pavement, and looks up at the Shelby tenements. 

Gone were the boarded up broken windows, and misshapen brick-work. In its place stood a perfectly decent set of buildings. The brick is a uniform dark brown now, still clean looking from a fresh coat of paint, she assumes. The windows, too, all match one another. It was nothing like how she’d left it.

“Miss Hannah Belgrave.” A croaky voice startles her. “I hear London’s made an honest woman of you.” 

She doesn’t need to turn around to recognize the voice—everyone who’s anyone in Birmingham would recognize Thomas Shelby’s voice. She doesn’t move a muscle, she just continues staring out at the flat. _Shelby Company Limited_ is embossed on a sign, hung above the doorway of the flat she’d grown up in. She clears her throat and corrects him, “It’s Addison, now. Missus Hannah _Addison_.”

“My apologies,” He says, appearing in her peripheral,but she doesn’t remove her eyes from the flat, unable to process it’s upgrade from a gambling den to a legitimate business. 

It had been what? Four, five years? _No, she realizes, more like twice that_—had she really been gone that long? 

“Mrs. Addison.” He corrects himself. The little intonation of his voice at her new surname doesn’t go unnoticed, she just chooses to ignore it for the time being. With Thomas Shelby, you had to pick your battles, and that isn’t one she’s willing to have just then.

She slides her gloves off, tucking them through the handle of her case. “How bad is it, Tommy?” The comforting scent of tobacco fills her nose, and a gloved hand passes her a lit cigarette. She takes a long drag from it and hands it back to him. “I don’t smoke anymore.”

He chuckles, a little burst of a sound, and well, _that_ makes her look at him. There he was, Thomas _Fuckin’_ Shelby, the self-titled Prince of Birmingham, in all his glory. Flat cap snugly sat on his head, beaming blue eyes trained on her own, a jawline so sharp it could cut through glass. But she couldn’t find it in her to be intimidated, not the way she always had been by him. Instead of being looked down on, she felt as though she were looking out at him—eye to eye with the patriarch of the Shelby family.

He blows out a stream of smoke and licks his lips. “It’s bad, Hannah.” 

“How bad?” She quips back almost immediately. “Bad enough to bring me back to Birmingham? Or was that just an inconvenience you just couldn’t help but thrust on me?”

“It’s bad enough to drag you back to Birmingham, kicking and screaming.” He sings, pushing both hands into his pockets. “You’ve missed many family meetings. I think it’s time we caught up, eh?”

Just as Tommy’s sentence ends, the front door to the flat swings open, and Aunt Polly stands on the other side. She hadn’t aged a day, and Hannah can’t help the dopey smile that had grown on her face. Polly perches a hand on her hip and frowns at Tommy. “You plan to keep her out in the cold much longer, Thomas?”

“No, Pol.” He smirks, and extends a hand towards the door. “After you, Mrs. Addison.”

* * *

Tommy took her things upstairs, saying she’d be in her old room. Polly insisted on feeding her, even if it were going on seven in the evening.

“Well, this has changed.” Hannah murmurs, settling down at the dining table. 

New floors. New furniture. New people bustling around the betting den as well, it seemed.

“Well, a lot has changed since you’ve been gone, Hannah.” Pol says, climbing up on her tip-toes to grab a bottle from the top shelf of the cupboard. “Do you at least still take whiskey?”

Hannah, again, can’t help the smile that formed. Polly had always been her soft spot. “Of course, Aunt Pol.” 

“Yes,” she sings, “A lot has changed. The boys are legitimate now—or at least some part of what they do.”

“I saw the sign.” Hannah hums, taking a swig of her drink. Whiskey’s one of the things she missed about Birmingham. Of course, she could _get _whiskey in London, by the case if she really wanted it, but it tasted different when she shot it here. In Small Heath, it tasted like the warmth of the hearth, the smooth taste of tobacco in the air, the sound of laughter and curses—and back in London, it just tasted like rye.

“You’ve changed, too.” Pol says, settling her gaze on Hannah’s hand wrapped around her glass. “Grown up well, got yourself a husband too, it seems.”

The rings on Hannah’s finger feel as if they’ve double in weight.“Yes. I have.”

Pol sits down with a sigh. “Good on you."

“Thank you, Pol.” She says quietly, watching her aunt light herself a cigarette. She offers Hannah one, but she shakes her head, “I don’t smoke.”

“Hm.” Polly takes a drag. “It’s a shame, these boys always seem to sit on their hand and miss the play don’t they? I’d honestly thought one of them would have made you a Shelby in name, too. All too little to late now, ey? But I must know, would you have wanted that?”

Hannah smiles, but only to cover a scowl. “Too little too late, Pol.” 

“Would you have?” Polly exhales, giving Hannah a stare she’d seen millions of times before. That stare, it could cut through brick walls to get to the truth.

Hannah chuckles slightly, but only to fill the air while she thought—_what harm would the truth do now?_ She’s spoken for, a married woman—off the table, even to the pesky Peaky boys. 

“It’d be a lie to say I didn’t fancy them all at one point or another, growing up.” She sighs, uncaring if it made her seem promiscuous in her youth—they were handsome boys who each somehow managed to grow into handsome men. She’d essentially grown up with them. For years, she’d been close enough to them and Ada to be considered family—another sibling at the table or in the schoolyard. She was like a sister, until she sprouted hips and breasts and the boys started looking at her like they looked at all the other girls in Small Heath, because then she wasn’t a sister, not by _blood_ anyway. 

Polly grins, like she’d hit the jackpot. “Yet, you’ve married.”

“Well, Poll, I know better than to sit and wait for a Shelby boy.” Hannah rolls her eyes, an act that would have gotten her a dishrag whipped on her arms if she were any younger, “It doesn’t matter if I would have wanted it. Maybe in another life it could have happened, but in this one, I’vebeen quite happy to be Mrs. Daniel Addison.”

“Are you though?” Polly sits back in her chair, and looks her up and down. “Are you really?”

“I am,” she nods. Polly doesn’t look convinced—not in the slightest.

* * *

Things picked up in pace rather quickly after her little chat with Polly. Boys appeared seemingly from out of no where, and she was bombarded with hugs and introductions.

“In all my days—“ An exceptionally tilted accent sounds from the front door, “Well I’d heard the murmurings and I had to come and see if it was true for me-self!” 

Hannah redirects her attention from—_Was it Michael?_ She thinks it was Michael—Polly’s son. Hannah didn’t even know Polly had children. _God,_ she had missed so much. In the doorway was a more familiar face, one she would never forget, and the widest smile appears on her face and—by God, she couldn’t help it—she _squealed_. “Johnny Dogs!”

“My _goodness_ how you’ve grown!” Johnny exclaims, scooping her up into strong working arms for the warmest of Gypsy hugs. “Why when you left here—you were just a little thing!”

“Tell me, Hannah, look at the boys and tell me, which of them is Finn?” Arthur, grinning like Chestier cat, returns from the betting floor with a group of boys. With a nod, they all fall into a line, shoulder to shoulder. 

It should have been easy—and it would have been, almost a decade ago—where three piece suits were reserved for the Shelby brothers alone, but just then entire room was dressed to the nines. Nonetheless, she would never forget the most precious face she’d ever laid eyes on—he’s still got the same boyish features, just settled in an almost six-foot-tall body. 

She puts her hand on her hip and shoots a glare at Arthur, “Arthur, I just about carried the boy on my hip until he could walk.” She points directly at him. “You mightn’t remember, Finn, but it’s lovely to see you’ve grown up so handsomely.” 

“I remember,” Finn says, and although she can tell he’s fighting hard to keep his expression collected—probably on Tommy’s orders— his smile persists, “How could I forget you? I watched you chase John out of the house with a cricket bat.”

The kitchen erupts into laughter, and Polly says, “That she did! She’s laid each of these boys out on the street for crossing her.”

“More than once,” Arthur adds, clapping his hand on Hannah’s back. 

“That’s debatable,” The heavy voice comes from the doorway, where Thomas had suddenly appeared. The jovial tone of the room was sucked out by his dampening presence, his icy blue eyes seemingly freezing over everything that lived and breathed in the space. “Who’s taking bets by phone?” He asks quietly, but commandingly, and Finn and another Blinders dart back towards the betting floor.

“Alright—there’ll be time to catch up later,” Polly says by way of keeping the peace, much like she’d always done when they were younger. “Are you ready for us, Thomas?”

He doesn’t speak his response, he just nods, taking a drag from his cigarette, all the while focusing his icy glare on Hannah. She almost flinches. 

“Right then, excuse me boys,” Hannah says sweetly, rising to her feet. 

“Oh, you’re working her already?” Johnny Dogs asks, and when Hannah tries to shoot him a warning glance, she realizes he’s digging through Polly’s bread basket. “Don’t wear her out on her first day back in Birmingham, she still needs to mount my new mare.”

Hannah’s heart leaps at the thought—she hadn’t ridden a horse in a solid year. People in London didn’t have horses outside of sport. Even then, they preferred watching them race than actually riding them. 

“Come ‘round Friday, you can have her look at your mare then,” Tommy calls over his shoulder, and Hannah darts to kiss Johnny-Dog’s cheek before following Tommy and Polly to his office.

* * *

Hannah was seated now. Her fingers drummed against the wooden table as she tried her_ very_ hardest to understand what was happening.

“You bought me a house.” She repeats the words he’d just casually dropped, mid-conversation.

“I told you, I bought everyone houses.” Thomas also repeats, his voice full of annoyance. 

“There’s a house, in London, in my name.” 

“Just outside of London. Yes.” He takes a drag from his cigarette and glares, somewhat amused, “I thought you were good at this?”

Glossing over his jab, she asks, “And you didn’t think to tell me this—I don’t know—when you’d done it?” 

“Why would I?” He rolls his eyes, and doesn’t bother meeting hers again before adding, “I heard you’d married a man with money, Hannah—no one would be checking your credit or running your name.”

“It’s the principle, Thomas.” Hannah huffs, and takes the book that Polly passes over her. “What’s this one?”

“This is the one you burn when you’re through with it.” Polly says around a cigarette. “It’s all the money we need laundered, where it’s come from, and suggestions for where you could invest it.” 

Hannah sighs, eyes dancing over Tommy’s face. _Cheekbones, eyes, jaw_. Her eyes followed that pattern until she needs to return her eyes to the book. “I don’t understand. You’ve got it _written down. _It’s not like I have to sift through your books to find the money you need to hide, you’ve got a fucking book—“

Her voice trails off as she opened the book to the running balance. 132,560. 

“Thats why, my _dearest_ Hannah” Tommy sneers, sitting back in his seat with a satisfied hum.

“Thomas,” she says carefully, looking at the tabulations to be certain they’re right. “That is a _lot_ of money.”

“I know.” he nods.

“What am I supposed to do with _that_ much money that doesn’t get us both thrown in prison?” 

“You’ll figure it out.” 

She scoffs, and Polly interrupts, before it turned into a fist fight,“We’ve got people we owe favors to. It would be good to get those taken care of, no?You can go around Birmingham, invest it back into the city. It’s all written in the margins.”

So they _knew_ it was a lot of money. And they knew she would come if only they asked. It wasn’t a job they needed her to _figure out_, it was a job they needed her to _do._ They knew she wouldn’t ask questions, and even if she did—_when_ she did—she would still get the job done. If she got caught, sure, she had connections to the family, but she was fixer with a record of her own. 

The police wouldn’t be able to trace it back to the Blinders.

“_That _look.” Tommy points his cigarette at squarely her. “Yeah, you’re right, Pol. I have missed it.”

“What?” She whispers quietly, and although Hannah’s eyes were fixed on the little smirk on the corner of Tommy’s lips, she could feel her aunt glancing between she and him. 

“Smartest thing to come out of this city—I watched the cogs turn behind those pretty little eyes— and it only took her what?” he glances down at his fob, “_Half a minute_ before she’s figured it all out.” 

Hannah clears her throat and looks away—she hated being transparent. “Am I allowed to ask where it’s come from?”

“No.” Tommy blows smoke out through his nose. “And you don’t go askin’ John or Arthur or Finn about it, either—they’re all smitten with you and won’t hesitate to let it slip.”

“Why shouldn’t it slip?” Hannah asks, glancing between Tommy and Polly.

“Do you ask your normal clients this many questions?” Tommy chides, replacing his watch.

“Yes. I do.” She glares, “If I think it’s relevant to the job.”

“I doubt that.” Tommy sighs and rises from his seat. “So you’ll throw the money around—get it nice and clean before it comes back to us—but get it out of here soon.”

* * *

She retired for the night, after phoning home and telling Daniel she may be gone a little longer than she’d anticipated. He protested at first, but she managed to calm him down. 

It disappointed her slightly to have ask him to suffer through another one of her work trips—she’d only been home a month since the last one. When she’d gotten back France at the end of October, he’d mentioned that it seemed like he needed to make an appointment with her assistant, just to see his wife. He hadn’t meant it offensively, and if he knew she’d taken it that way, he’d probably apologize, but it was the truth—she’s been so busy as of late.

“Does your husband know what you do?” The voice comes from her doorway. She hadn’t even heard the door open.

“_Jesus_,“ she groans, trying to conceal the flinch his mere presence inflicted on her. “You fuckin’ scared me, Tommy.” 

“Does your husband know what you do?” He repeats, coming into the room and shutting the door behind him. It was odd how everyone in the family had picked up right where they’d left off—well, except John, who she has yet to see—Polly and Thomas both still don’t respect the boundary of a closed door. “Your _fixing_.” 

“Yes. He does.” 

“Are you lying?” He asks pointedly.

She scoffs. “What would I have to lie for, Thomas?”

He inhales sharply. “Because if you trusted him—or loved him—enough to tell him what you do, you would have told him about us, about Birmingham, about the pesky Shelby boys you left behind; but you haven’t. You haven’t been to Small Heath since John’s first was born.” 

“Or perhaps I have,” She says, all pensive and purposely ambiguous. Thomas always asked so many questions in one go that it was hard to keep up with him sometimes. This time she’d kept up fine, but there were somethings he didn’t need to know. She sighs, and turns to continue unfolding her night gown with an arched brow. “and he’s too respectable a man to let his wife come back to this city.” 

Ignoring her almost completely, he asks, “Well, do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you love him?” He asks the question as if he were asking the time of day. As if it were something mundane as the price of a loaf of bread, and not the basis of her marraige vows.

She turns, slowly, and glares at him, “Why would you ask me such a thing?”

He shrugs, “Just a thing to ask.”

“Yes, Tommy, I love my husband. Very much, actually.”

He purses his lips. “You never were a very good liar.” 

“I’m not lying.” She shrugs,“But anyone saying anything other than what you want to hear _must_ be lying, yeah? And what does it do for you, knowing if I love my husband or not?”

“You told Polly he’s American.” Tommy pouts, ignoring the jab and her question. “Probably a blonde-haired Yankee, no?”

She takes a few steps closer to him, “What’s it matter to you?”

“Is he nice to you?” He tilts his head away from her slightly to blow smoke out without it hitting her in the face. “Treat you well?”

“Yes, Inspector Shelby.” She rolls her eyes. 

“I mean it. Because you don’t trust him enough to tell him about your work, or your old life here in Birmingham, and you’ve got a bruise on your forearm there.” He points out, and she shifts to cover it. “You know us Shelbys,Hannah. We can make it look like a very unfortunate accident.”

“You touch a hair on his head and I’ll kill you myself, Thomas.” Hannah says in a quiet voice, _deathly_ quiet. 

His expression changes ever-so-slightly, but perpetually a hard-man, he recuperates in no time, donning an unbothered facade. 

“The bruise came from _work_, work that Daniel already knows about. You think you know everything don’t you? Can you not handle the thought of _something_ in this city not needing your salvation?”

“No.” Tommy says quietly. “I can’t.”

She didn’t know what else to say to him—she’d geared up for a fight, readied words to throw back at him when he inevitably begun a pissing contest with her. But she doesn’t need to, because Tommy just nodded curtly and reached out for the door handle. “Tommy?”

“Goodnight, Hannah.”

* * *


	3. "And then the entire family almost hung,"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter here —just a bit of calm before the storm, haha. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!  
xx

* * *

Although the china was all new, and the dining furniture set as well, the boisterous Shelby energy in the room was just as she’d left it.

“Oh, Finn, it was something to see.” Polly grins, “Grabbed him by his ear and dragged him out to the street. Handed his ass to him.”

Hearty laughs comes from all around the table, and Hannah does her best to smile with them and forget about her encounter with Tommy last night.

“What did you do to piss her off, John?” Finn asks, spreading a bit of butter onto his bread. 

John scoffs into his tea. “I slept with her friend.”

That wakes Hannah out of her slump, “You slept with her and then _refused_ to speak to her again, you dog.” She supplies. “Tell him the _whole_ story, Johnny Boy.” 

“Yes, and you probably would have killed him if Arthur hadn't gotten you off in time.” Tommy says from the doorway. Hannah jumps at the sudden sound, her hand flying to her chest. 

A whisper of a curse slips past her lips, and everyone’s eyes snap up to him, darting between he andHannah. 

He touches her elbow apologetically, but continues, “She broke his nose for the first of many times to come, poor thing swore he was dying.”

“Good morning, Thomas.” Hannah says, taking a forced sip of her tea.

“Good morning, Hannah.” Tommy sparks up a cigarette. “Good morning, family.” 

Murmurs of good mornings come from around the table. The youngest of the Blinders, Finn, Isiah, and Michael all took their leave, citing their various duties as reasons for abandoning half-eaten breakfasts.

“What’s on your schedule today?” Tommy asks, making himself a cup of tea, even going as far to swat a hand at Polly when she tried to make it for him, “John, Arthur?”

“I’ll be stopping by the warehouses, see to itour little arrangement is being fulfilled.” Arthur whispers, turning his teacup around so Tom could refill it for him. 

“And I’ll be at the Garrison. Taking a count you asked me to.” John nods. 

Hannah looks at him softly. Although he’d married, she thinks her presence doesn’t do much but remind him of his past lover, Martha. The younger Shelbys wouldn’t know it was the defense of her honor that led Hannah to bloody John out on Watery lane, but the older generation didn’t hide their solemn looks at John.

Just as she’d begun pitying him in her head, he grins at her and stretches a long leg out under the table to kick her shin.

“John!” She gasps, and kicks back immediately. “If you’ve run my stocking, I swear—“

“Good God, it's as though you're fucking _children_.” Tommy murmurs to himself, settling into the seat across from Hannah, oblivious the deathly stare she’d given John. “And you, Hannah?” 

“I’ll be headed to the scrapyard with Arthur.” She says, and Polly pats her arm, almost saying _‘It’ll be fine so long as you don’t kill him._’

“And what of our little problem?” Thomas asks, looking at the morning paper.

Hannah scoffs at ‘_little_’. “That’s why I’ll be headed to the scrapyard. I’m going to start off there.”

“Alright. Take two Lee boys with you. I want them armed.”

“To the scrapyard?” Arthur asks, glancing around everyone at the table. “Tommy, I’ll be at the scrapyard.”

He peers over his newspaper. “I heard you—so will Hannah and two Lee boys. You get on with your business, she’ll see to hers, and the Lees’ll stand there and look _pretty_, Arthur. And take Finn with you, too.”

“Right then.” Hannah says, interrupting before things got violent. “Shall we, Arthur?”

* * *

“Right, well—after that, half the fucking family almost hung for various counts of murder.” Finn continues his story, filling Hannah in on the drive to the scrapyard. Her eyes snap to Arthur, who’s gripping the wheel so tight, his knuckles are white.

“Why don’t we stop there, ey Finn?” Hannah suggests, patting his hand, “I appreciate you getting me all caught up, though.” 

“We’re here.” Arthur announces, and flings his door open. She follows suit, and steps out onto the wet gravel. Her heel sinks into it slightly, and she loses her balance, but Arthur is there in a flash to catch her. 

“Little impractical a choice in footwear, eh, Hannah?” He murmurs, but it isn’t harsh, it’s playful, just as she remembers the eldest Shelby boy. 

“Well, they’re _Parisian_, Arthur,” She hums, “When have the French ever made anything practical?”

That earns her a hearty laugh, and she pats his arm. Charlie Strong’s scrapyard is more or less the same as she’d left it, just now with a spot dedicated to car parts that hadn’t been there before. Warehouses, as well, have sprouted near the bank of the cut, and Arthur excuses himself to look at some merchandise, asking her not to lose her pretty heels anywhere.

He calls out to Finn, and he sprints over to the warehouse behind him, not unlike a faithful puppy.

Hannah, finally alone, takes a moment to herself. She heads over to the stables, still in the same spot they were when she was younger. _Grace’s Secret _is engraved in a plaque over the first horse. Finn had told her about Grace. She can’t imagine anyone having a hold over Thomas Shelby, but the way Arthur's eyes had softened at the story, and the way Finn had quietly said, _‘I think you would have liked her’_, made her realize that this woman, whoever she was, was probably the best thing that had ever happened to Tom.

The horse sticks its head out through the gate. It doesn’t bleat at her, it just settle’s its snout in her palm.

“‘Ello, Ms. Belgrave!” A bouncy voice comes from behind her. Curly, holding his hat in his hands against his chest, waddles over to her. 

“Hello, Curly!” She calls back, and smiles at him. He smiles back, and Hannah savors the way her heart flutters softly. Something about the smell of hay and Curly’s little smile just feels like home.

“Have you come to see Johnny-Dog’s mare, miss?” He asks, and waddles to the second stall. She follows, and on the other side of the gate is aHackney mare, with the shiniest black coat Hannah had ever seen on a horse. 

“What’s he named her?” She asks, reaching out a hand to touch her. 

“Well, miss, I don’t think he’s named her yet.” Curly nods, “But, how are you miss? Charlie’s been looking for you, I think.” 

“Has he?” She murmurs, still stroking the horse, “Well, Curly, I’ve been grand—but being back in Small Heath—well, I could use a drink.”

“Oh!” Curly nods, and disappears, without any warning. He did do that quite often, even before she’d left, so she doesn’t take offense, she just directs her attention back to the mare. 

For a moment she wonders what name Johnny Dogs will settle on. The horse bleats quietly, almost as if reading her mind. _Bandit_, she thinks is a good name—but she wouldn’t name a horse without mounting it first. In her peripheral, she sees Curly reappear.

“Mr. Shelby’s been making these, yeah?” He says, handing her a bottle with a clear liquid in it. She takes a look at the label, _Gin_ is written in boldface. 

“Gin?” She questions, “Tommy doesn’t strike me like a gin man.” 

She pulls the top off, and takes a sip. Her face screws up as the gin torches the back of her throat.

“Don’t like it?” Curly asks quietly.

“It’s bloody _sweet_, Jesus.” She clicks her tongue, willing the taste away. 

A laugh comes from off to their left, and Charlie Strong approaches them. He’s still the tall lanky man he’d always been, grayer than she’d left him, for certain, but his refined features were still prominent: somber sunken eyes and strong, set jaw. 

“Tommy says it's too sweet, too.” Charlie says, leaning on _Grace’s Secret’s_ gate. 

“And what do you say, Charlie?” She asks, grinning.

“I don’t touch the stuff.” He says, scratching his stubbly grey beard. “Y’know me, Hannah. It’s whiskey or it’s nothin’.”

“Why’s your boy making this stuff anyway?” She asks, setting the bottle down on the gate. “Rye shortage?”

“No, no. He’s sending it to the Americans. ‘Cheaper to distill it himself.” 

“Then he’ll need to make it quite a bit sweeter.” She says, taking the bottle by its spout, she reads the second line of the label. “‘Distilled for the eradication of seemingly incurable sadness.’ The American’s’ll love it.”

Charlie's eyes settle on her hand, still wrapped on the bottle. "S'that a ring? Bloody hell,"

"Yes?" 

"Well—" Charlie stops and clears his throat. "I just, I didn't know. Don't think anyone 'round here knew."

"I've been gone for a while now, Charlie."

"I know," He hums, "Believe me, I know." 

She arches an eyebrow at him. He doesn't budge. She crosses her arms across her chest. 

"It happened fast, Hannah." He looks away, and scratches at his jaw. "You were here, and then, _well_, you _weren't_."

"Yes,"

"No warnings, no explanation, nothing." 

She frowns.

"Polly was beside herself for a while, we all were. 'Specially Tom." 

She scoffs now—Now, it was was clear Charlie was simply mistaken. "Alright, quit spinning yarns now."

He furrows his brow. "Where'd you go?"

"London. For a while. Then America."

"America." He repeats, tasting the word. From the look on his face, she supposes it didn't taste all that great.

Charlie Strong was like that uncle everyone had—the one that was reliable and quick, but never one for vast emotional depth. He existed in absolutes, he either was, or wasn't. He either knew, or he didn't. He would either help, or he wouldn't. Just then, she hopes he knows, and he would help. 

"Charlie, is there anything I should be knowing?" She takes a breath. "Anything...endangering? Incriminating?"

"Besides the usual around here?"

She cracks a smile. "I see."

"You'd know more than I would, darlin'." He huffs, fiddling with the lock on the stable. "Whatever Tommy's brought you home for, I think you and Tommy are the only ones privy." 

And that was the truth—she could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice. They'd kept Charlie in the dark, clearly about more things than just whatever the hell was going on now. It makes her stomach uneasy with a sticky, slow feeling of dread as it builds in her gut. She always trusted her gut, and her gut is saying that something is wrong. 


	4. "When brother dearest calls,"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ada returns from America at Tommy's request.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello! Here's a bit more Shelby family feels before the plot really takes off. Hope you all enjoy!
> 
> xx

The ride back to Watery Lane was quiet. It was clear that the Shelby men knew she was growing suspicious, and their inability to assure her otherwise only confirmed her fear. Something was advancing, and she was growing more and more antsy as the moments ticked along. 

When they arrived at the tenements, things started happening quickly. She hadn’t been paying attention, having been nervously playing with the hem of her dress, that is, until the car abruptly stopped, and both Arthur and Finn reached for their pistols and flung their doors open. 

“Stay in the car,” Arthur had gruffed out. She watched him stalk around the car up to the apartment. 

The front door was wide open.

She flung her door open and reached for her own handgun, following close behind Finn. 

“Bloody hell, are you all mad?” Arthur yells. In front of them, Polly and John are sat in the sitting room. 

“What?” John questions.

“You left the bloody front door open!” Arthur holsters his gun. “I thought—”

He stops himself when he notices Polly’s glare. Hannah and Finn also put their guns away. Then, a small child comes running through the house. 

“Karl, slow down, you’ll hurt yourself!” Polly chides, but Finn catches him before he does. 

“Karl?” Hannah questions, and only then notices the suitcases near the door. Large, leather suitcases. 

“Karl,” Another voice calls, and soon the person rounds the corner with a wave of brown fur and dark hair. “Fuckin hell,” 

Ada Shelby has not aged since she’d last seen her ten years ago. Same silky brown hair, same beaming blue eyes. 

“Hannah!” Ada screams, and throws her hands around her neck, engulfing her in a hug. “_Hannah_, what the hell? My God, it’s been years.”

“Ada, darling, you look well.” Hannah grins, admiring her sister. “Where’re you home from?”

“America!” She huffs, “New York! Tommy’s got me doing Shelby business overseas now.”

“I see,” Hannah smiles, but doesn’t have time to process the international reach of the Shelby Company just yet—Ada had snatched her hand up in her own.

“Good Lord, you’ve married, too?” She inspects the diamond, “Polly, have you seen this rock on her finger?”

“Aye,” Polly nods.

“That’s it, screw Tommy’s little meeting.” Ada announces. “You and I are going for a drink.” 

John, still across the room, scoffs, “Ada, honey, you do realize that you’re back in Birmingham, right? The bars don’t serve unaccompanied women.”

Before Hannah can reply, Ada’s linked thier arms together, “We’re Shelbys, they’ll serve us if they want to keep their eyes.” 

* * *

Ada was right. At first, the barkeep at the Marquis had refused them. Then she’d simply dropped her business card on the bar top in front of him. Embossed in black, it read, _Ada Shelby-Thorne, Head of Aquisitions, Shelby Company Limited._

He quickly brought their drinks. 

The conversation flowed easily between the two of them. It was as though they’d been apart a few weeks, rather than a decade. 

Hannah felt something solemn come over her, though. Whether it was the look in Ada’s eye when she spoke of him, or the fact that she still wore Freddie’s ring, Hannah knows that the loss of her husband affects her more than she lets on. Ada was a Shelby through and through, though, so she carried her hurt like her brothers: stuffed deep down inside and topped off with whiskey. 

Ada’s eyebrows go up, her eyes a little fuzzy with liquor. “Well, let on. Tell me more about your Daniel.”

“What would you like to know?” Hannah smiles at her insistence.

“Come on!” She gestures, “What’s he look like? What’s he do for a living? How’s he in the sack?”

“Ada!” 

Mrs. Thorne only tosses her head back and laughs, a beautiful flutter of a sound. 

Hannah frowns, but not for long. Daniel floods her head and a smile quickly follows, “He’s tall. Blond. An American, as I said.”

Ada only props her hand up and rests her head in her palm, earnestly listening.

“He’s a physician. He served in the war in France as a medic on loan from the States. We split our time between New York and London, mostly London, though.”

Ada looks at her for a long moment, with a ghost of a smile on her lips. “You seem happy.”

“I am.” 

“I’m glad.” 

“You’re a long way from New York, Ada.” Hannah comments, shifting her whisky glass. “I can’t help but feel I’ve missed something.” 

“Well,” She sighs, “My time is Shelby time, and when brother dearest tells me to get on the next ship to Liverpool, I do.” 

Hannah leans in, “Is everything alright with him? I heard—”

“Oh no, Tommy’s made a right mess of things.” She shots the last bit of whiskey in her glass before snapping at the barkeep and pointing to it. 

“Pardon my asking, but—”

“Oh, what, he didn’t tell you? Sounds like him.” The two of them watch the barman fill her glass again. “Y’know Tommy, he’ll burn the city down if it saves his skin.” 

“Is that what happened?” 

“Hannah,” Ada closes her eyes, “Arthur, John and Polly almost hung because of him. He just—and I mean _just_—got the indictments dropped in time.” 

“But he saved them?”

“Our aunt’s neck was in a noose, Hannah.” Ada says quietly. “He wouldn’t have had to save them if he didn’t serve them up to save himself.” 

“I see.” Hannah falls silent. “Finn—Finn told me some of that. He left out that bit.” 

“Finn didn’t know details.” 

“Of course.” 

“This is the first we’ve all been under the same roof since the almost-executions.” 

Hannah perks up, “What?”

“I left for the States, Arthur married a pilgrim and settled into farmland, Polly replaced Tommy with her son, Michael, and John and his tribe only tolerate him for work.” 

“Well what’s brought everyone home?” 

“Dunno.” She shrugs. “What’s brought _you_ home?” 

She shivers. Birmingham was not home, not anymore. 

“I’ve taken up work as a fixer of sorts. Tommy needs something fixed.” 

“Ah, I see.” 

“Ada, I’m laundering a lot of money, but not nearly enough to warrant the sort of reunion you’re suggesting this is.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Hannah.” Ada finishes off her drink. “I don’t think understand anything that goes on in this family anymore.”

Hannah looks at her, at the nonchalance in her eyes and her shoulders, and sees a mirror image of Tommy. His pout, his apathy. It's all there, and i t’s most disconcerting.

* * *

The following days went as well as they could have, with all the Shelbys under one roof. 

There were heavy glares and empty threats every morning, and quipped _"Goodnight"_s every evening. The drudgery of it all began to take its toll on everyone, even the youngest of them. Hannah began to notice, with the context of her conversation with Ada, how everyone regarded Thomas. She'd mistaken their reservation and as reverence, but now, she understood. 

She understood why Polly's eyes lingered on Tommy's face, long after he'd stopped speaking. She understood why John didn't look him in the eye. She understood why Arthur ended conversations as quickly as he could. 

Hannah had begun laundering the money at Charlie's yard. As a matter of fact, she'd already gotten a few thousand pounds legitimized there in just the three days she'd been in town. If she weren't still walking on eggshells around the Shelbys, she'd be impressed with herself. 

That evening as she arrived back to the tenements with Finn, they walked in on a scene. It seemed as though the others were all gathered in the kitchen.

“What? We eat like a family now, do we?” John asks, but pipes down when Esme yanks his arm, pulling him into his seat beside her. 

Not that there was anything wrong with the idea, but Hannah found herself wondering the same thing. Finn had been sent to fetch her, and when they turned into the little dining room of her childhood home, she was met by the dining table having been annexed by some of the betting shop’s tables and chairs. 

By some miracle they all managed to settle around, with smaller kids on the laps of brothers and uncles, and seats pushed up on the corners of the table to seat additional family. 

Polly had seated Hannah beside her, like she had when they were younger. Back then John had occupied the seat across from her, always an arms length away from Polly’s disciplining pinches, but tonight, Tommy did. He was looking quite strange sitting there, not occupying a head of the table, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. 

Finn is sat on the corner of the table between Tom and Polly. Poor lad, he looked terrified of elbowing his older brother in the side, and had pushed his chair so far back he probably couldn’t even touch his plate. She shoots him a little smile, and he returns it. Tommy’s ever-present glare follows their shared glance and settles on his brother. 

He clicks his tongue and reaches his hand out, yanking Finn’s seat closer to the table. “Can’t eat from in the hall, can you, Finn?” 

“Right,” Finn says, fiddling with his jacket’s front. 

Arthur, sat beside Tommy, with Linda literally on his arm, chuckles lightly. “He doesn’t bite, Finn.” 

“I might,” Tommy says passively, with only the hint of a threat in his voice. 

Ada, beside Hannah, clears her throat, “So, Tommy,” to which he grunts, but she continues, “What’s come of my friend Jessie Eden?”

Tommy sighs, and starts serving food on Hannah's plate. “Can we have a nice family meal without talk of business? Arthur, the potatoes, please?”

Arthur obliges, setting the glass dish firmly in Tommy’s hand. He gives himself a little serving, and passes it to Finn. “Jessie Eden?” Arthur asks, reveling in Tommy’s discomfort.

Michael is who speaks next, sat beneath John’s youngest, who’s bouncing up and down on his knee. “Yeah, what has happened to Miss Eden?” Thomas, slowly chewing a mouthful of potatoes, glares at him. 

He was clearly uncomfortable, which made Hannah just a little excited, so she asks, “Who’s Jessie Eden?”

Polly pats her arm, and spoons another helping of peas onto her plate, then nods, “A Communist wench, going around inciting revolution among the poor.” Everyone looks up at her, and she adds, “Sorry, Ada.” 

Ada, contentedly picking the peas out of her peas and carrots, shrugs, “Don’t apologize. I no longer sympathize with their cause,” 

Michael, reaching around John’s son for his fork, adds, “Whatever you’ve done, it must not have been cheap,” He finally stabs a piece of meat, and adds, “Her people have stopped rioting—the cutters, male and female alike, are back at work.”

With a little sigh, Tommy says plainly, “Pretty cheap. I only slept with her.” 

The clinks of silverware against dinnerware halt. Everyone’s eyes snap to him, and he slowly glances around at them all, before asking a very quiet, “What?”

Ada glares at him, “You what?”

Hannah fights a grin at the loaded stare Ada was giving her brother—oh, if looks could kill, the Shelby men would be _dead_ by now. 

“I said I shagged her?"

"I heard what you _said_, Tommy, I'm asking you _why_?" 

"It was cheaper."

Ada clenches her teeth so hard, Hannah thinks they might shatter. 

"You Shelby men, solving everything with your cocks." Polly sighs. 

Finn makes a disgruntled sound, so Hannah smiles at him, "Not you, darling. I'm sure you're the perfect gentleman."

"Or maybe he's just a wuss." Arthur croaks. "What are you, seventeen, eighteen? Never seen any girls sneakin' about. When we were your age, Polly was chasing girls out the house every morning." 

Finn washes so pale, Hannah thinks he might faint. Both she and Ada quickly leap to defend their younger brother. "Well perhaps he's got his priorities straight, and he's not goin' around chasing skirts like you lot."

Arthur grins, "Just don't overdo it, yeah? Then you'll just end up like John."

"Oi!" John protests.

"Maybe he's just saving himself for marriage, ey?" Tommy announces, and glances at Arthur, who quickly joins in. 

"Atta boy!"

John snorts, "He's just shit at talkin' to girls. Y'should see him. Like a fish out of water. Lad couldn't bed a gal if he paid her." 

"Alright, must we do this now?" Finn whines, and Polly places a soothing palm on his knee. 

The three older Shelby men only laughed with each other, and for a moment, things felt like they were okay. That they were just another one of the families on this street, gathered around their dinner table for a meal, taking the piss out of their brother. It felt raw, and real, the smiles on their faces, the laughter in the air, but Hannah isn't fooled. Everyone at that table has spilled blood—lots of it, too—herself included. That thought had never bothered her before, but as she watches Tommy clap a well-meaning hand on Finn's shoulder, he wonders just how large their collective kill count was. How many men had they harmed, how many lives had they ended, how many families just like this one had they stifled and squashed out of existence? 

She didn't want to know. So she sat quietly and smiled. 


	5. "She's taking the day off,"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannah takes a day off to go riding, although Tommy seems to need her help in London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a little bit of fun before things start to get angsty. xx

The following morning, it was finally Friday, and Hannah felt as though she’d played maid to Tommy Shelby’s finances as best she could for the moment, so she was going to have a morning off. 

Plus, Johnny Dogs wanted her to mount his mare.

So when she came down for the day, she wasn’t wearing a pretty dress—she was wearing riding gear. 

The family, all of them again, somehow managed to fit at the little dining table. 

Tommy immediately sits up when he sees her hit the landing at the bottom of the stairs. Unfortunately for her, he seems to be in a bit of a mood. 

“And where the hell are you off to?”

She doesn’t flinch. “I’m taking the day off.”

She doesn’t look, but from the tone of his voice she knows he’s _definitely_ in a mood. “She says she's _taking the day off_.”

“Yes,” She repeats, finally glancing up at them all. “You gave a me a list— ridiculous, impossible list— and I’m a third of the way through it. I’m taking the day off.” 

“Is that so?”

She steps into the room and greets everyone else, “Good morning, everyone.” 

Tom interrupts before the others could respond. “What about the yard?”

“I’m waiting to hear back from a few manufacturers.” She reaches forward onto John’s plate and steals a slice of his toast. “Can’t move forward until they give me numbers.” 

“I see.” He grumbles.

“Yes,” She hums, draping her hand over the back of Polly’s chair. “Unless of course, I could be of use to the Shelby Company some other way.” 

“As you’ve mentioned it,” Tommy arches his brow. “I could use you in London this evening. Doyou validate accounts?”

“I do.” She pouts, “Just not in London.”

“No?”

“I don’t take clients in London anymore. Through you or anyone else.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. I’ve beaten that horse way past dead. There’s no one left in the city worth a venture with.” 

Tommy makes an amused sound, but Hannah doesn’t bother responding. She only clears her throat.

“Plus, I’ll be taking Johnny Dogs’ money today. If you all aren’t too busy, you ought to stop by. Maybe put some money down.” 

Polly perks up, “Are you riding, then?”

“Of course!” 

“Is it a race?” Finn asks. 

“Yes. I’ll be up against Tommy’s jockey.” 

Tommy grunts, “My jockey is running an unsanctioned race, where?”

“Oh relax, Tommy. It’s a yard race down on the gypsies’ land.” She glances at the clock. “I better be off. I’ve got to learn the horse.” 

And just like that, she’s off through the door. Through the windows, Tommy sees her greet her Lee boys. He’d purposely picked the _burliest_ two fellows to follow her around and keep her safe, but from their interaction, it seems she’s managed to become their friends. She greets them both with warm embraces, and for some reason, it made Tommy’s face hot. 

With a crack of sound, he reopens his newspaper, and the room falls silent. Quickly, of course, one of his family members interrupts his morning read.

He felt Polly’s eyes on him, so he groans, “Are you going to say anything?”

“Absolutely not.” She says with a smile.

Finn’s foot its bouncing so hard that if it raised any more, it would hit the table.

He drops the paper. “Well, what is it, Finn?”

“Might we go see Hannah’s race?” The younger Shelby blurts.

Tommy grits his teeth, but he sees the look on Finn’s face, and on all the other young Shelby faces. “Go on. You’ve been cooped up in the flat long enough. Take Charlie with you.”

_Thank you’s_ sound off.

Michael rises to go with them, but Tommy quickly snaps, “Not you, I expect to see you hard at work in your office when I get there.” 

Michael frowns, but fixes his tie and nods, before leaving, presumably for work.

Arthur and John both frown at their brother.

“What’s the matter with you two, now?” Tommy snaps.  
****

Arthur croaks, “I dunno, Tom, I quite want to see what trouble she’d gotten herself into”

Polly only laughs.

* * *

He did try to settle into his office—he really did. Lizzie knew. The other women in the office knew. Even _he_ knew, but he’d be damned if he admitted it. 

Eventually, he couldn’t look at the spread of papers in front of him anymore. It would make his brain explode, truly. So he darts up, snatches his coat, and makes his leave.

“You going to Johnny Dogs’ then?” Lizzie asked as he passed her desk. 

“Yes,” He barked, then, “Come on then, Michael.” 

The gypsy camp was cold and slightly wet, after a morning of light rain. The sun shone, though, which was more than Tommy had expected. Curse her, the little wench brought even _literal_ sunshine to Birmingham. 

He stood near the back of the little assembled crowd, mostly Lees and their gypsy folks, and spots Finn, holding Charlie in his arms. 

Johnny Dogs came bounding up on his own little speckled horse, yelling about bets, “Alright, ye filthy animals! All those putting coin on the lassie , front and centre.”

The assembled Shelbys all stepped forward, except Tom. 

“I should warn the opposition, she’s on one of me own horses.”

“She’s a lass!” A Lee calls. 

“She’s a _Shelby_, too.” Tommy calls back. The little crowd looks over at him.

At that, a few lads up front make bets. Johnny Dogs rides up beside Tommy, tucking folds of notes over in his belt. 

“Is there a cap on the bets?” Tommy gruffs out.

“Of course not, Tom.”

“Then 400 pounds on Mrs. Addison.” 

“Have you no shame?” Johnny Dogs sings, but still takes the fold of notes out of Tommy’s hand. “Betting against your own horse and rider?” 

“None.” Tom huffs. “I bet on the horse I know will win, regardless of who it belongs to, or who’s mounted it.”

“So it’s got nothin’ to do with your first love bein’ the one that’s doin' the mounting?”

Tommy scoffs. “Who ever said anythin’ about her bein’ my first love?”

Johnny Dogs grins at him, and kicks his horse twice, sending them off. “Alright lads, who’s ready to see a fuckin’ race?”

He loads his pistol with blanks, and then shouts towards the end of the field, “Ready in the stables?”

“Aye!” The jockeys respond. 

“On yer marks,” He yells, poising the weapon in the air, “Get set,” 

And then a shot in the open country air momentarily deafens them all. 

As the riders come up the stretch, it looks closer than it actually is. Hannah, sat low on the Hackney mare, came bolting up the other jockey’s side; and only when Tommy’s eyes shifted to see how far behind the other rider trailed did he realize his jockey was riding _his_ horse. _Grace’s Secret_.

Before he’s even processed the thought, namely, before he decided whether her was upset about it or not, Hannah gained an insane lead, and quickly passed their finish line.

Hannah also stopped her mare with much more skill thanTommy’s jockey. Moments after traveling at top speed, she’d stopped her horse, even when the other rider couldn’t stop _Grace’s Secret_ from heading towards the tree line.

“Aye,” Johnny Dogs shouts, “Looks like the odds favor the Shelbys, for once.”

As the bets settle, Tommy watches his jockey ride up beside Hannah, a little grin on his face. It made Tommy oddly uncomfortable. They were still some odd yards away, though, so he turns and finds somewhere else to purge his tepid anger.

Just then, Finn had set Charlie down, in the midst of a crowd of angry Lee men who felt they’d been swindled.

“Oi!” He shouts, and starts over to them.

* * *

From what she can see, Tommy had gotten one of his large hands on the back of Finn’s neck, and pulled the boy’s head down a few inches away from his own. 

He probably only found himself doing that because Finny had grown much taller than any of the older Shelby boys had, and it was too difficult to yell at him from a solid four inches below. But yell he did—and not at a volume, as one normally would. He scolded with a low, pointed voice, the way only dangerous men like Tommy could. 

As they approached the crowd, the jockey beside her ran his horse into the side of hers, gently, to recapture her attention. 

“Where’d you learn to ride like that?”

She arches an eyebrow at him. “Mr. Shelby taught me when we were young.” 

“You’re a friend of his, then?”

“Does Tommy Shelby have friends?”

“I’d like to think so.” Another voice answers before the jockey can. A deep, rumbly voice that makes Hannah shiver. 

Tommy had placed himself between the two horses, and although he wasn’t a tall man, most definitely not taller than a full-grown horse and its rider, Hannah can only glare down at him. 

“Give us a while, Nathaniel,” Tommy hums, and the jockey barely nods before taking off. “Beautiful horse, that is.” 

“Aye,” She laces her fingers through the horses silky locks, but she sees Nathaniel leaving out of the corner of her eye, and frowns down at Tommy. “Is’at how you treat people now?”

“What?”

“He and I were talking.” She tilts her head to the side, “You just got in the middle.” 

Tommy smiles—a rare sight, Hannah knows, so she stops her inquiry and smiles back. 

“I didn’t realize the jockey’s conversation was that riveting.”

“God, no.” She huffs, “But it’s still rude, all the same.”

“I guess I’m a rude man, then.” 

“That isn’t new information, Thomas.” 

And there it was—another smile. She finds herself smiling back, again. The blue of his eyes seemed brighter somehow. Less like ice and absinthe, and more like the waves of Wales. A warm blue, like the sky on a warm country day with the gypsies, not like the pale smog of Birmingham. 

They’d made their way to the little wagon one of the Lee women had lent her, and she dismounts the horse with a strange sort of grace. 

Tommy couldn’t put her in a box anymore, and it was making him grow more and more frustrated by the day. When she’d left Birmingham, she’d been a _girl_, a girl who could hold her own, but was by no means the sort of woman he saw today. Granted, she probably thought the same of him. He was a boy when she left the city—she probably didn’t recognize the man he’d become, either. 

Was she a fixer, now? Or was she still a gypsy who ran races? Was she an American woman, now? All warm and familial? Or did she still have that fire that got her in trouble all those years ago? 

He didn’t know, and it infuriated him. 

“I didn’t think my little race would pull you away from your work.” She says, reaching through the back of the wagon. 

“Well, I wanted to ask your help with something.” He feels a drop of rain, but when he glances up at the sky, there are no clouds. “I’ve got a friend, in London—”

“I don’t take work in London, I told you.” 

“And why is that, again?” When he glanced back at her again, his view of her is partially interrupted by the wagon door—and very well it should be, because she’d begun taking her riding clothes off. 

“Will you tell me who it is we’re meeting?” 

He could only see the curve of her shoulder, and the length of her hair, but he couldn’t, _he couldn’t. _So he turns his back to her and talks to the air. 

“No, I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Then my answer is still no.” She hums, “I’ve made enemies same as you, Tommy. Understand that when I elect to not do something, it’s for a very good reason.”

“Or perhaps you’ve just got better things to do?” He asks, following Nathaniel’s gaze over at them. Tommy glares at him, and he quickly looks away. 

“What?” She asks, “The jockey? Tommy, I’m married.”

“As you keep reminding me.”

“As you seem to need reminding,” She shuts the wagon door, and when he turns around, she’s wearing a soft, flowing dress. The horse whinnies, almost in approval. Tommy considers whinnying as well. 

“Interesting dress.” He nods at her. “Polly’s?”

“Esme’s.” She supplies. 

_“Doesn’t look like you.”_ He almost says, but he doesn’t. 

Then, looking like she’d just had an idea, she smiles, “if you change your mind, and would like to tell me who it is you’re meeting, I’ll be more than happy to go. I’d like to see Daniel.”

“Ah,” He nods, a hint of a smirk on his lips. “What a shame you don’t take work in London, then.”

* * *


	6. “Y’know I don’t like new faces Tommy, n’matter how pretty they are.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy takes exceptional means to get Hannah to London, and she's got a bit of a surprise for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of this week's episode, I bring oc/Alfie feels. xx

Hannah sits up in the backseat of a moving car, unable to allow herself a moment to be confused. She immediately takes in the surroundings—Tommy’s driving, Finn is in the front, and it’s sometime midday based on the shadows cast through the car. She had been drinking with the Lees—having _snow_ with the Lees, and now she's in in a car with Shelby men and a royal headache.

“Where’re we going?” She asks, her voice thick and sleepy. 

“Thank _fuck_,” Finn gasps under his breath, glancing over his shoulder at her. 

“What?” Tommy says around a cigarette, “I told you she’d wake up.” Finn glares at him so he adds, “_Eventually,_”

“What? How long have I been asleep?” She demands, blinking her weary eyes but not being able to focus them. 

Her eyes settle on one of the three silhouettes of Finn as he begins speaking again, “Look—you can’t be mad at me, Hannah—“

“Well I’ll be the judge of that. Where the _hell_ are we and _where_ are we going?” She barks, but the sudden burst of energy makes her lightheaded. Her hand snaps out to grab onto the leather seat. “Why can’t I see?”

“We need you to do a job, Hannah, so buck up—we’re almost there.” Tommy calls, and she grinds her teeth together.

“Thomas I swear to god—“

“We’re just outside of London.” Finn interrupts, eager to get the information out, as if it were burning his tongue to keep it from her. “We’re going to meet a man in Camden Town and we need you to be there, so please, sit up. Here.” 

He hands her a flask, already opened. She takes a whiff of it—whiskey. She screws the top on it, on the _third _try, because each time she lifted her hand to twist it shut, she missed the top. She leans her head against the back ofthe seat, staring up at the velvet lined top of the car. “I don’t do business in London, Thomas, I told you—“

“I know, but it’s too late to find someone else, besides, you’re the only one I trust to look at books.”

“So you drugged me?” She squints, “What was it?”

“I’m sorry Hannah, we had to.” Finn apologizes, and Tommy shoots him a glare,

“You need me to stop and go back a few paces, Finn? You’re sounding like you’ve dropped your balls somewhere back there.” 

“Oh, what?” He huffs, “I can’t apologize to a friend for being complacent while you _drugged_ her, and then dragged her to a job you _knew_ she would want no part of?”

“For fuck’s sake, what was it you gave me?” Hannah yells, interrupting their argument—the corners of her vision was going black and spotty.

Tommy sighs, “Couple drops of morphine—you’ll be fine, Hannah.”

“Couple of drops,” Finn says incredulously, glaring at his brother “More like two tablespoons.”

“Oh for—stop the car.” She says, but Tommy makes no move to. “I said stop the _fucking_ car, Thomas.”

He pulls over, and she swings the door open, falling to the grass with a thud. Both Shelby boys hop out as well, Finn chasing around the car to get to her. She shoves two fingers down her throat, and her breakfast comes up. She heaves over and over again until nothing more surfaces, and just her weak gags fill the country air. Finn drops down beside her, one hand on her back, the other offering a hen-kerchief.

“A smoke?” She asks, and Finn quickly produces one.

“I’m sorry, Hannah.” Finn mumbles, lighting it for her.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Finn, she’s _fine_.” Tommy says from beside them, hands in his pockets, finishing his cigarette with his eyes turned up to the blue sky. “It was just a little morphine.”

“It’s not the morphine, you insufferable _cunt_.” Hannah barks, having Finn help her back onto her feet. “I had a bit of snow after the race. And a bit of gin.”

Tommy turns, looking at her as he blows smoke out. “Jesus Christ, it’s only four in the afternoon.”

She glares. “You’re one to talk, having just _drugged_ me.”

“Maybe we should take you to a doctor.” Finn says, wrapping his arm around her waist to better support her weight.

“No, I’ll be fine,” She whispers, “Although I’m not sure I’ll be of any use to you for look at books considering the fact that I can’t fucking see.”

Tommy kicks the tire and swears under his breath. “Right, well, maybe it’ll wear off before we get there.”

“Jesus, Tommy, can’t you see she’s ill?” Finn grumbles, helping her back into the car, settling in the back with her.

“I’ll be fine.” She groans, “I don’t understand why you didn’t just _tell_ me that you needed my help.”

Finn scoffs, “Y’know Tommy—if there’s a chance you’ll say no, he’ll force your hand.”

* * *

Thomas was going to be fucking furious. 

Alfie’s bakery is just as she left it.

Her vision is wobbly, but was doing much better than she had been on the car ride to Camden Town. She had to use a considerable amount of her limited will-power to keep her face unfazed—but it would be worth it, just to see the look of bewilderment on Thomas Shelby’s stupid smug face.As she walks behind him, arm in arm with Finn, she’s unable to prevent the smile from forcing its way across her face. Finn notices and curses under his breath about her still being high as a kite.

She managed one foot in front of the other without stumbling like a baby deer, which at this point, was a win in her book.

Boys in aprons bustle around them, as they make their way through the bakery, towards Alfie’s office. Suddenly, Tommy stops, she and Finn almost run into his back.

“Who’s that you’ve got with you there?” Mr. Solomons’ boisterous voice booms, and he doesn’t even bother trying to shake Tommy’s outstretched hand. He points at Finn and her, “Y’know I don’t like new faces Tommy, n’matter how pretty they are.”

“Alfie.” She smiles sweetly, pulling her coat off. His eyes light up at the sound of her voice, and his eyes go wide. A giant smile engulfs his hard features and he laughs,

“Hannah _fuckin_’ Belgrave.” He says through a laugh, “What the fuck are ya doing with a character like Shelby?”

After he releases her from their embrace, she swats his arm playfully, “_Addison_, Alfie, how many times must I remind you that I took his name?”

“_Married_,” He mocks the word, holding her by her shoulders, “Well, how’ve you been since Epson?”

“Well,” she nods, and her eyes dart to Tommy and Finn, who are now standing behind Alfie with the most incredulous looks on their faces.

She should stop, but they _had_ drugged her and driven her miles away, back to London, without a moments notice. She could at least have a little fun, couldn’t she? Ollie pokes his head out of the corner office, what had been her office not too long ago.

“How’ve you been yourself? I see you’ve got Ollie in his own office now.”

“Well the fuckin’ bloke needed a phone to do my bidding, didn’t he? I was tired of letting him in my own office.”

She smiles, and waves at him. Slightly confused, Ollie waves back. “Now, Ollie’s the sweetest little thing, though isn’t he?”

“Oi, sometimes I wish you’d kept him in that blackjack game, ey?” He laughs and she joins in, only to be interrupted by Tommy clearing his throat, quite annoyed now.e

“Alright, Alfie, before your boy has a fit.” She pats Alf’s shoulder and nods, “So show me the books he wants me to look at.”

* * *

Alfie's office was exactly the same, too. Bottles of rum lined the shelves, a thin layer of dust covering ledgers Olly had left for Alfie to look over, and his favorite black pen still in its place at his right.

“Right then,” Hannah nods, seizing the lull in the conversation to flip the account book shut. “I’ll leave you boys to talk business.”

“’S lovely seeing you, Hannah, just lovely. Give my best to Daniel, ey?” Alfie stands, shooting her a wink and extending his hand out to take hers. She takes it firmly and gives it a little shake.

“I need you here,” Tommy interrupts, but his voice isn’t jarring. It’s quiet but commanding, the way only Thomas Shelby could manage.

“The books are good, Tommy.” She sighs, collecting her purse and coat, “Did them myself a few months back. The moneys good. Clean. All thats left is for you to you boys to negotiate the terms.”

“And I need you here for that.” He replies, not even bothering to conceal the dullness in his voice.

“Oi, Tom. You dragged the lady all the way back out here, didn’t you? At least let her go see her boy.”Alfie groans.

“That’d be good for you, eh, Alfie?” Thomas accuses. “I need you here, Hannah, to tell me if any of Mr. Solomon’s terms are unfavorable to our finances.”

Fixing his eyes out at Alfie, he slips his hand down and pushes her chair out for her again.

Alfie scoffs, “Well, y’know what, Tom, I resent that.I can’t say I _wouldn’t_ try to pull the wool over your eyes and get myself a better cut, but I’m hurt, yeah?”

“You want to offend Mr. Solomons, Mr. Shelby?” She says through gritted teeth.

He sighs, clearly over this discussion. He huffs, and lights another cigarette. “Wouldn’t be the first or the last, right, Alfie?”

* * *

By the time they'd finished with Solomons, it was going onto midnight. Neither Shelby wanted to to make the drive back to Birmingham, so they agreed to stop at Tommy's Warwickshire estate, Arrow House. Hannah sat quietly in the passenger seat for the entire ride, less out of exhaustion and more out of anger. She was almost shaking with anger, but she wouldn't snap, not in front of Finn. The poor boy already felt terrible, she didn't want to make him feel any worse than Tommy already had. 

Once the arrived to the estate, the quiet had become unbearable. Finn launches out of the car the moment it stopped moving. 

“Are you at least going to tell me why?” Hannah asks, foldingher arms across her chest. Finn, bless his heart, still stalls in front of them, ready to get between them should they start throwing fists. Tommy shoots him a dismissing glare, though, so he ducks towards the front door.

The air is cold and her coat is still in the car—but Hannah is still so angry that she can’t be bothered to feel the chill. 

“Why what?” Tommy asks, being purposefully dense.

She scoffs, narrowing her eyes at him, “Don’t be daft, Thomas, I don’t have the patience. Why didn’t you let me leave Alfie’s to go see my husband?” 

“Because I needed you—“

“Bollocks.” She cuts him off. “That’s bollocks, and you know it.”

“Right. Well, what would you like me to say? Hm?” He snaps back. 

She closes her eyes tightly and chews her lip, to avoid spitting out the expletives that came to mind. The telltale metal clink of Tommy’s lighter fills the night air, and the smell of smoke tickles her nose. She sighs and nods, “The truth, ey? Let’s start there.” 

“Well Hannah, I could say the same to you, can’t I?” He whispers, but it’s forced, aggressive. “Why does Alfie fuckin’ Solomons know so much about Daniel but we don’t? Your own kin, eh? Wouldn’t that strike you as a little fuckin’ odd if you were me?”

“Well, let’s see,” She tuts, “Had you have_told_ _me_ you were taking me to validate Alfie’s books I would have _told_ _you_ the trip was unnecessary, because _I’d_ done his books. Maybe you’d have even heard a funny story about how I knew him. But no, what did you decide to do instead? That’s right! Dope me up—”

“You didn’t answer me.” He snaps, “Why does Alfie know about Daniel and we didn’t even know you’d married?”

“No!” She snaps back, pointing a manicured finger up at his nose. “You don’t get to make demands of me, Thomas. I have been understanding, I have listened and taken everything you’ve thrown at me_ in stride. _But I draw the fucking line at you meddling in my relationships, business and personal ones alike. If you embarrass me in front of Alfred Solomons or any more of my associates in London that you summon to do your bidding, I will send you back to Small Heath in pieces.”

He looks away, towards the long driveway and kisses his teeth, “Was he at the wedding?”

“To hell with the fucking wedding, Thomas!” She shouts, “You put yourself between me and an good friend and client tonight—“

“Was Alfie Solomons at your fucking wedding?” He yells over her. “Because if _Alfie fucking Solomons_ was invited to your wedding, but the woman who raised you and the people you grew up as family with _weren’t_—“

“Then what? Hm? Then you can’t look at me the same? I don’t want you to, Thomas. That Hannah Belgrave left Birmingham for good almost a decade ago, and I’m whats left of her.” She says, staring directly into his eyes. She’s met with a fevered blue glare, but it softens when she speaks, “Alfie Solomons was at my wedding, Tommy. He walked me down the aisle.”

“That demented fuckin’ lunatic Jew?” He yells, “What—what, Arthur wasn’t going to be good enough for you? _I_ wouldn't have been good enough for you?  Couldn’t bring Brummie trash to your pretty London wedding, could you?”

Standing back on her heels, she searches his face. He’s angry—angry that the Shelbys weren’t invited. He’s a man of principle, and this went against what he expected of her. She hated others having expectations of her, anyway.

She clears her throat and fixes her gaze on his tie, unable to meet his eyes again,“Thomas, your brother had just been picked up by the Yard for the murder of Billy Kitchen. I didn’t know what had happened yet—but I heard he was going to hang. I knew it wouldn’t be safe, for you or for Alfie, if I had you at the wedding.”

The two of them pause for a delicate moment. Realization settles on Tommy's hard features, and his eyes soften a bit. Life—their retched, dangerous lives—had gotten in the way of things, and it had left them as the sort of people who could yell and berate each other in the early hours of the morning over the simplest, most inconsequential things. This life of running and hiding and fighting, it lit fires in them that neither knew how to quell. They were cut from the same sort of cloth, sewn into different garments of the same pattern, but refused to acknowledge their similarities. She'd become a dress, and he a suit; he'd become Tommy Shelby, no longer the bright-eyed boy with an eye for business, and she _Mrs_. Addison, no longer the quiet, little, brown-haired gypsy.

He sighs, and she watches the air billow out through his lips into the cold night. “Yes. Right. Look, let’s get inside, it’s fucking freezing.” 

He stalks away, towards the front door. She watches him, the lines of his suit making him look all stocky and square from behind. Quietly, she starts behind him. It was an awful thing to be a Peaky Blinder for this long; it gets in your bones, making you distrustful of even the oldest of friends.

* * *

_When Hannah had first arrived in London, she’d had only the bare bones of a plan. She had a band of notes tucked under her skirt, and a revolver settled in her bag. She’d hoped to land a job as a barmaid as soon as possible—that would give her steady enough income to keep up with the rent of whatever hole of a place she’d find to stay in. If she didn’t find honest work, she resolved to find a madam, _before_ her money ran dry. And she had gotten damn near to that point, but thankfully, she’d met Alfie._

_And Alfie had always been good to her. More than good. Exceptional. _

_She didn’t know why she’d taken herself into that bakery in Camden Town. The advertisement clearly said they were looking for bakers. She hadn’t known anything about baking, but she’d went anyway. The men on the work floor had looked at her as if she were an actual piece of meat, thrown into the bakery as some sort of treat, but Alfie snapped her up, barked orders at the men, and led her to his office. _

_He asked her if she knew what men like that would do to a girl like her, in a place like that. She’d told him, quite plainly, that she had some inclination, but she didn’t think she was the sort of simple girl he pegged her for. That’s precisely when he’d decided he liked her. _

_See, Alfie had a knack for reading people. It seemed as if he could see through their facades, down to what they wanted, or needed, within moments of meeting them.He employed her, even when she had no business being in his city—when she was clearly on the run from something or another—and had no way to prove her worth to him. He’d taken a chance on her, even though he had no godly reason to do so._

_And she never took that for granted. She worked diligently on any task he presented to her. She didn’t ask questions because she knew he couldn’t answer them. She gave insight wherever she could—which saved his ass a couple times, both physically and figuratively. _

_The respect she showed him was quickly returned, tenfold. Within a year, they quickly became friends—good ones—and after two, business partners. He knew, from the way she handled money—the way she counted it, without glances that lingered too long and suggested greed—that she’d come from money. He also knew, from the way she carried her gun, proudly in a shoulder holster and not in a purse like most London women did, that it had been _dirty_ money. Her penchant for respect suggested it may not have been money specifically, but influence and power certainly. She spoke with a fluid certainty that just made people listen. _

_ He’d all but asked her one day, if the man she was running from would ever cause him any trouble. She’d looked him dead in the eye and told him that she wasn’t running. He’d been certain then—and still is certain—that was the only lie Hannah Belgrave had ever told him. _

_One particularly busy evening, she’d thrown a bottle of rum at one of his bakers, and he’s scuttled from her office like a puppy with its tail between his legs. Ollie had calledAlfie, telling him something seemed to be the matter with Ms. Belgrave. Alfie, muttering and grumbling all the way, left his office to settle in hers. _

_“Right—Ollie’s said you’ve scared off one of my boys, yeah?” He says, closing her door behind him, and settling down on the couch by the door. He sniffs, and the overwhelming scent of rum fills his nose, “Fuckin’ hell, what’d you do, pour it out on the fucking floor?”_

_She doesn’t look up from her spreadsheets—in fact, he doesn’t think she’d realized he’d joined her, much less heard a word he’d said. He stands, and walks up to her desk, waving a hand through her eye-line. She looks up at him with glossy eyes, and murmurs, “Oh. Hello, Alfie.” _

_“‘Oh, hello’?” He asks, and points behind him vaguely, “You just pouring out the merchandise for fun now?”_

_She blinks twice before realizing what he’d meant. “No. I threw it at Elias.” And, having explained herself, returns to her work._

_He bites his tongue to prevent himself from snapping. She told him he snapped a lot. He’d wanted to stop. “Yeah? And why’d you almost kill the boy?” _

_She looks away and sighs, and Alfie knows the look on her face. Hannah refuses to meet his eyes, and says in a soft voice, “I’ve dealt with it, alright, so there’s no need to harm him.”_

_He folds his heavy arms across his chest and grunts. “What’s he done?”_

_“I’ve written it off as an expense of mine—so really, there’s no reason to fire him, okay, Alfie? He was just doing what he thought he had to, for his family’s sake.” _

_He rubs his jaw, again, trying in earnest not to, as Hannah had put it, snap. Hannah had weeded through his ‘bakers’ after a year of working as there, tossing the thieves and pilferers out on their asses. She’d hired good, young Jewish boyswith families to feed, because she knew they’d behave themselves and work hard to keep their well-paying jobs. Their profits increased exponentially. Unfortunately, that meant that Hannah felt responsible for said new boys, and often forwent disciplining them. After all, they were more often than not the sole providers in their households. She’d feel as though she was snatching the bread from their babies’ mouths if she fired them. _

_Alfie knew she would protect these boys to an insufferable end, and as much as lost profits angered him, her humanity comforted him, so he simply said,“Hannah,” _

_She closes her eyes tight and says, “He took a few bottles of spiced rum last Friday. Sold them on the street. Another boy brought it to my attention this morning.”_

_Ever quick to anger, Alfie bites his tongue, and sits at the chair opposite her and her desk. After a moment of silence, he asks, “Which boy brought it to your attention?”_

_“David.” She says, gently. “Said his crate was short three bottles.”_

_“Three bottles,” Alfie grunt, disbelieving. “What’s he done with the change from three bottles?”_

_She sighs, setting her pencil and her elbows down on the table, hanging her head, and sliding the tips of her fingers through her hair. Alfie watches the brown curls fan around her forearms—she was upset by this, but it was just three measly bottles. Alfie had spilled three bottles worth of rum in the last week, alone.“Gotten the medicine his youngest needs.” _

_“Right. Well, three bottles isn’t the end of the world.” He nods, and waits. She looks up at him and frowns._

_“He says he isn’t the only one that takes from the crates.” She sends her tongue out to wet her lips and sighs, “Gave me a list. Says they take them and sell to the local pubs.”_

_Alfie can’t help it. At that, he snaps, rising to his feet. “I ought to fuckin’ run them all out of here this fuckin’ second!”_

_“No,” She says, reaching a hand out to him, “He swears on his life, Alfie, it’s only a handful of them. That’s a hundred boys you fire for the actions of five or six of them.”_

_“I want all their names.”_

_She frowns, “Alfie, I’m not going to let you hurt them—they’re all stealing to afford medicine for their fucking kids.”_

_“I don’t care!” He snaps, but that’s not what he’d meant, so he tries again, “Not that—look, if they needed more money, why not ask for more money? An advance on their pay? Fuckin’ something! Hannah, you know I can’t fuckin’ stand a thief.” _

_“I know—I know, Alfie. And I’ll handle it.” She says simply, and returns to massaging her scalp. For a moment, Alfie feels bad, thinking his outburst had irritated one of her horrendous headaches. “You fire them now, they’ll be bitter and it’ll bite us in the ass. So we wait. Kids this young, consumption either kills them quick, or they pull through after a few weeks. Either way, after it’s said and done is when I’ll let them go.” _

_“Good.” he says quietly. _

_He watches the white of her knuckles peek through the curtain of her chocolate locks, as her fingertips slide over her scalp soothingly. After a moment, she swipes her palm around the back of her head, gathering all her hair in her hand, and twirls it twice into submission on her left side. Looking slightly less stressed, she picks up her pencil and continues her tabulations. Her black silk blouse had a square neckline and long flowy sleeves that cinched in at the wrists, and settled neatly between her collarbones was a little diamond on a thin silver chain. He realizes her holster is missing, but spies it hung off the back of her chair. Her curls, which she’d always kept immaculately coifed back with pins, were worn down today, and he quietly laments that he hadn’t noticed until now, at the end of the work day._

_“And would you tell Ollie to stop fucking wasting petrol on me? I live right up the road, Alfie, I can good and well walk.” She says, looking at what Alfie realizes must be an expense report. _

_“Well, I could tell him, but I think he’d be proper confused when I ask him to get a driver to take you home tonight.” Alfie crosses his legs. _

_“Alfie,” She complains, but the sound of it just makes him smile. _

_“I’m not letting you walk home at night, Hannah, y’know this. Fuckin’ dangerous, it is.” _

_“I’m five minutes from here. Ten, tops.” She says carefully, the way she does when she’s gearing up for a fight, but Alfie was having none of it._

_“Not fuckin’ happening.” He shrugs. “And I’ve been meaning to ask ya this, but why is it you haven’t moved from that flat?”_

_“Why would I move?” She shifts the papers around, “It fulfills its purpose as a flat. Houses me well. Running water. The nines.”_

_“It’s tiny.” He deadpans. “Ollie had a fuckin’ knot on his forehead, said he forgot to duck going through ya doorway.” _

_“Well, yes, Ollie’s a tall man.” She shrugs. “I fit through just fine.”_

_“And, what? Y’don’t have any other tall men over?” He asks, only realizing its implications after he’d said it._

_She sets the papers down and grins at him, “Do I look like the type to have other tall men over often, Mr. Solomons?”_

_“Oi,” He points a finger at her, “That’s not what I meant, unless—”_

_“Unless what?” She asks, her grin not faltering._

_“Unless,” he shrugs, “Y’don’t like tall men. I dunno—perhaps you prefer tall women? I don’t judge, yeah?”_

_Her laugh, full and genuine, fills the space. Her head flung back, and when she leans forward her curls swing with her. She wipes tears from her eyes, “Jesus Christ, Alfie, love, I like tall men. I promise.” _

_“Right well,” He shifts, uncomfortable that he’s made that accusation now, and attempts to make her uncomfortable, as well. He loved an even playing field. “Then tall men hit their heads on your doorway—that’s a valid reason to move.” _

_“Tall men don’t hit their heads on my doorway, Alfie,” She says, still smiling, “I can’t step out with any men in this part of the city, they all assume I belong to you.” With an unceremonious roll of her hand, she gestures, “No one wants to touch Mr. Solomon’s pet, for fear of their very lives .” _

_“Well that's utter rubbish.” He groans. The way it rolled off her tongue, ‘Mr. Solomon’s’ pet’ made him consider it. “I’m sorry. I must make things difficult for you.”_

_“Not really,” She says, flipping the page again. “It means they don’t fuck with me, really. They don’t holler when I walk by. It’s nice.”_

_“At the expense of being called my pet.” He hums, gazing out at her. _

_She hums as well, and nods, “Could be worse off in the world than belonging to you, Alfie. God know’s I’ve heard them all.” _

_And that stings them both. He looks out at the curve of her bottom lip, the soft line of her jaw and the arch of her eyebrows. He didn’t ever lie to himself—he knew Hannah was a beautiful woman. He’d beaten many bakers for looking a moment too long when she walked across the bakery floors, and sometimes, at night as he drifted away to sleep, he’d imagine the curves of other parts of her body. In a low voice, he nods. “People can fuck off.” _

_Caught by the tone of his voice, she looks up. Her eyes darken and she whispers. “Yeah. People can fuck off.” _

_He stands, slowly, and stalks around her desk, settling beside where she sat. He dropped a finger down to her cheek and brushed the back of it against her jaw. “I can make them fuck off, Hannah. You should be able to step out with whoever you like.” _

_She looks up at him, her big periwinkle eyes staring seemingly into his soul. Slowly, she rises from her seat, too. Her body is so close to his that he can feel the heat radiating from her. Her heels, Parisian, as he learned she preferred, were obscenely tall, and put her almost at his nose. _

_She looks up at him and whispers, “Whoever I like, ey?"_

_He closes his eyes. He can smell the rosy scent of her perfume. It makes his blood frenzied. “Whoever the fuck you like.”_

_He almost moans when she reaches out a slender hand and skims her fingertips on his beard. Swiping it under his chin and grasping it lightly, she pulls his lips down to hers, and kisses him._

_ He settles his hands on her shoulders, and stops her. She glances at him with curious eyes, and whispers, “Am I mistaken, Alfie? You said whoever the fuck I liked, didn’t you?” _

_“I did.” He says, gently, “I just want you to be certain—really fuckin’ certain with me, yeah? That this is what you want, I mean.”_

_She scoffs, “What, so men can have sex whenever they fancy it, but a woman can’t get her rocks off at all?” She turns from him, back to the documents on her desktop. “Right then, out. I’ll just finish these up and head home then.” _

_He snaps, as she’d probably see it, and takes her chin in his hand, pulling her up for another kiss. Her hand find his hair, knocking his hat off in the process. His hands then swipe down her back, gripping her arse and lifting her unto the desk with little effort. He pulls away, and she’s breathless, panting. He’d knocked the wind out of her, but she was paying attention. “No, Hannah, you can fuck who you please, when you please,yeah? I just want you to be proper fuckin’ certain that you want to fuck _me_, because if you tell me yes, I will have you on this desk, right here, right now.” _

_She nods, her fluffy curls bouncing, and fists her hand in the bit of shirt exposed by his waistcoat. _

_He settles his hand on her jaw again,and parts her legs with his, settling between them. “Say it. Out loud, I want to hear it. Are you certain?”_

_“Yes,” she breathes, a beg in its own right. She grips his shirt tighter, and nods, “Yes, I’m sure, Alfie. Right now.” _

_It's ravenous, the way he moves across her skin, and Hannah—well Hannah hadn’t been _had_ since high school, so every grip of his callous fingers on her skin made her shiver and moan. It was almost as if it were something hot in her blood, making her dizzy, making every gasp and groan that escaped Alfie Solomons’ lips have her die just a little bit more inside. Before she knows it, her papers and pens go clattering to the floor; he breaks their kiss and murmurs some apologies, but she just snakes her fingers in his hand and yanks him back to her lips. He hikes her skirt up around her waist, and with the swipe of a hand he’s slipped her blouse over her shoulders._

_Her fingers make quick work of his waistcoat, and as he drapes her blouse over the chair. She shoves his shirt over his shoulders, revealing tattoos and scars that her lips itched to taste. She’d seen them before—on exceptionally hot days, when the bakery was simply insufferable, the bakers forwent shirts—so she was mildly familiar with some of the etchings on Alfie’s skin. Low on self-control, she doesn’t even get the sleeves all the way down his arms before dipping her face forward and suckling on the outline of a Union Jack on his chest. Alfie lets out a laugh, a rough chuckle at the coolness of her tongue against his skin, but laces his hand through her hair as she continues up his collar and settles in his neck._

_He too, felt the fire coming from to person in his arms. He’s not sure why he hadn’t expected this level of ferocity from her, either. He grapples with the thought that someone so small was capable of moving so directly in relations of the sexual kind; but he can’t think too hard, because her hand dives into his pants and wraps around his erection, and he may have momentarily lost consciousness._

_ For so long he’d tried to look at her as just another _person—an employee, another business partner— _not explicitly a _woman_, because he knew then that it would lead to exactly this. He couldn’t allow himself to look at her for what he knew she was—a perfect match for him. There she was, a brilliant woman with the wits to parry with the best of them; a woman who saw how he operated and not only fell into place beside him like a partnered dance, but also was innovative and ingenious enough to keep him on his toes._

_And yet, he doesn’t regret it—not one fig—and he wouldn’t; but Hannah, after it’s all said and done and the satisfaction of an orgasm waned,she might regret this. But, he wouldn’t dare ask her if she was certain again._


	7. “Doctors can't be tall?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy finally meets Daniel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello!
> 
> I've got a little update for the time being, things are going to start picking up pretty soon, so I wanted to give you all one more little cute bit before the carnage, lol!
> 
> xx

When Hannah arose the following morning, it was to find out that she was completely alone in Arrow house, save Tommy Shelby himself. For some reason or another, Finn had been sent back to Birmingham on horseback, earlier in the morning. That peaked her suspicion, because Tommy had grumbled something about it being for the boys safety, but when Hannah asked him what he'd meant, he's dismissed her with a flap of his newspaper. 

So, she elected to make his day a bit more difficult. She didn't only want to go home _just _ to shag her husband. She'd left for Birmingham with a case equipped to stay _maybe_ a week. She needed things laundered, she needed toiletries, and she needed to fetch her other handgun. So she'd all but forced Tommy to take her back to London, _again. _That argument had been an interesting one—especially when you considered Tommy's reaction. 

At first he'd refused, with a great huff about petrol and how men like him weren't safe in London. Then, when Hannah had assured him that Daniel would be at work at the hospital, and that she would be able to get in and out of the house without a fuss, he'd completely changed his disposition. _"Alright then, in the car." _He'd huffed, _"Let's get on with it."_

The drive to her flat is essentially quiet, save a few loaded glares from Tommy. Once they turn onto her street, she frowns. Part of her wants to ask how he knew the directions to her home so readily, but she decides that Thomas Shelby rarely keeps useless information.

"Whose car is that?" He asks, his eyes narrowing on the white Mercedes parked out front.

“Shit," 

"Shit?" 

"He must not be on call." She announces, as he pulls up in front of her house. "You'll stay in the car, then."

She feels his eyes glaring into the side of her head. “What?”

“I said, you’ll wait in the car.” She says, buttoning her coat jacket, and hopping out. “I don’t want you pestering my husband—especially when you’re the one dragging me away for three more weeks.” 

“You’re going to make me sit in the car, like your driver, instead of inviting me in your house to meet your husband?” Tommy asks, glaring over at her. 

“You don’t want to _meet_ my husband, you want to terrify him.” She mumbles to herself, but she looks up and nods. “Yes. Yes I am.” She turns to the flat, but throws over her shoulder, “Won’t be long, Tommy, I promise.”

“Right, so I’ll just sit here, then.” He hums, annoyed. “Like a fucking knob.”

She ignores him, at this juncture it’s all she’s capable of doing, and turns the knob to her flat. Emma greets her, taking her purse. From the hall, she can see that Danny isn't in his office—or in the front room. He must have been taken to work.

“Morning, Emma, love.” She says, “Listen, I’ve got a few items of laundry in there I need done. I’ll be in and out, alright? No need to tell Daniel—“

“No need to tell Daniel what?” He calls from the hallway, and sure enough, when she folds over her coat and hands it to Emma, he appears in the entryway. 

“That I’m back, for exactly—“ she glances down at her wristwatch, “the next ten minutes.”

“And you’d have asked Emma to lie for you, dear?” 

“It’s not a lie,” she reddens, setting her cigarettes on the sideboard.

“A lie of omissionis a lie nonetheless,” He says, grinning, as he stalks up to her. “Hello, wife. How many visits home have I not been privy to?”

“Husband. Just the one—and you’ve foiled it, haven’t you?” She stretched up on her tiptoes and pecks his cheek. “I just need to pick up a few more things.Seems like I’ll be staying in Birmingham a little longer than expected.”

“How much longer? Did you _drive_ here?” He asks, heading to the window. He uses a lean finger to pull back the curtain, and narrows his eyes at the sight outside. “There’s a man in that car—oh, he’s waved at me. Darling, you want to, uh, tell me about the man in the car, waving at me?”

Unable to formulate a less-incriminating response, she tells the truth. “That’s Thomas Shelby.” 

“_The_ Thomas Shelby.” Daniel hums. “He’s the client, then?”

“_Daniel_,” she complains, and he recognizes the tone immediately.

“I’m just saying,” He throws his hands, up, and in the process releases the curtain without returning Thomas Shelby’s uncharacteristically friendly wave. “I want to be certain I understand you.”

“You understand me well.” She says, climbing the stairs. “We talked about this before I left.”

“You told me you were going to be helping out some old friends—you didn’t say you were going back to _them_.” 

“Hey,” She snaps, not liking his tone. “I’m doing precisely what I told you I’ve gone to do, yeah? I haven’t gone back anywhere.” 

“Right,” He says, disbelieving, but nothing more. He settles in the window sill, and watches her snap open his suitcase and begin filling it with dresses and pantsuits. 

She feels his eyes on her, and after the fourth article of clothing packed, she can’t stand it. She hated them being angry with one another—loathed it. Daniel was a good man, a brilliant man who made sure she wanted for _nothing_ under the sun. He let her do her work—very illegal, very _dangerous_ work—and he never once questioned her. His hesitance about _this_ job wasn’t the risk associated with laundering money, it’s the risk of fraternizing with Shelby men—a risk of which the consequence was typically a slow painful death. 

“I’ll get out of it if it really bothers you, Daniel.” She says quietly, settling on the edge of the bed. 

“No, no.” He says, but she sees through it—he’s only agreeing to make her happy, and that hurts her more. “You trust these people, right? They were like family to you, once. I’m sure I’m just worrying for nothing.” 

She watches him shove his hands into his pockets and turn away from her, casting his gaze through their sheer curtains, down at Tommy’s car. She asks, “Danny?” 

“Well,” He hums, his voice a tad sharp, “I can’t help it, Hannah. I’m a man, it’s in my bones. _Thomas fuckin’ Shelby?_ That man could snap his fingers and have me dead, if he decided he wanted to keep you.” 

She scoffs, “Yes, because I’m a _thing_ to be _kept._” She turns back to her folding and thinks,_ if there were less men in the world maybe things would get done, and we wouldn’t, as a society, spend so much time worried about the things like this that don’t fucking matter._

He runs his hand over his face and sighs, “That’s not what I meant, Hannah, and you know it.” 

“Well, if you’re assuming all women are susceptible to Tommy’s relentless charm, I suppose you think our wedding vows were just a couple cushy words we came up with for a quick laugh?”

“So it’s ‘_Tommy' _now, huh?” he glares, “Look, I didn’t I say that, did I? Hannah, you’re being insane—please don’t act like a man not wanting his wife out fucking galavanting with a renowned gangster is _unreasonable.”_

She sighs. He’s right. It seems like Daniel is always right in matters like this. His sense of propriety was strong, for an American. “You’re right,” She stalks over to him, slides her hands up his lapels and links her hands around his neck. She presses her face against his chest and sighs, “I’m sorry, Danny.”

He sighs as well, but wraps his arms around her. “I know—I know you know what it is you’re doing. I trust _you_ completely. I don’t trust Thomas Shelby, no matter how well you might know him.”

“If it makes you feel any better, to know Tommy isn’t to trust him—_I _don’t trust Tommy either.” 

“That,” He grumbles into her hair, “doesn’t make me feel any better.” 

“It should, because it means I won’t let my guard down with him. I can take care of myself, Danny, I promise. You just have to trust me.” She whispers, and he reaches a hand up to stroke down her hair. 

“I trust you.” He hums contentedly, and after a moment, slides his hands down over her ass and hoists her up against him.

“What are you doing?” She asks through a fit of giggles.

“I’m going to have you, wife, before you run off to Birmingham again with your gangster friends for another month. Is that alright with you?” He asks, settling her down on the window sill, and sinks down to unbuckle her shoes. 

"I was only gone a week, love!"

"It felt like a month." He grumbles, fiddling with the little buckle.

He does so in a flash, and is sliding his palms up her thigh to fetch the hem of her stocking. Those too, come off in a flash, and he’s reaching for her panties. She grabs his wrist, hiked up under her dress, with both hands. “Danny, you don’t have to prove anything to Tommy,” she whispers, and glances through the sheer curtains, down at the car. Thomas has gotten out of it, and is leaning against the hood, smoking a cigarette. 

He grumbles, “Hannah, will you make me beg? It’s been _a_ _week_.” 

She can’t help the smile at that—it _had_ been a week. She felt it deep in her belly when she laid down at night—her body missed her husband’s. When his hand continues its journey and settles on the corner of her undergarments, he hooks his finger in and yanks them down. They’re dangling off her left foot when he sinks down to his knees.

His head disappears under her skirt, and soft kisses flutter around her thighs, making her grip the ends of the curtains settled around her on the sill. He moves quickly, _urgently_, but not haphazardly. He pulls out all the stops,_ a bite, a kiss, a bite, a swipe of his tongue_. She’s coming undone and panting in a mere few moments. 

Her dress was one with front facing buttons, so he slides his hand up to start undoing them, but immediately grows frustrated and yanks the two sides apart, sending the buttons everywhere. 

“Danny!” She squeals, but can’t manage any more of a scolding. Her hands went immediately to his shirt, undoing his buttons with only slightly more patience than he had for hers. 

Soon, their chests were pressed against each other, his hand on her throat, holding her against the window gently, as he slides into her. Her body releases to accommodate him, and a broken, needy sound comes from her lips, and before she knows it,she’s begging, ‘_please, Danny, faster.’ _And Danny, ever-indulging his wife’s sweet pleas, picks up his pace until she’s falling apart in his arms. Once he, too, finds release, she watches the lazy smile stretch across his lips, before he dips down to kiss her.

She murmurs, “You ruined my dress.”

He grins, “Think I like you better without it, anyways.” 

* * *

_Tommy is still outside_, she has to remind herself, although Daniel's hands did their best to have her forget it.Finally prying herself away from Daniel’s insurmountable displays of affection, she pops down the stairs, calling up to Daniel who’s right on her heels, “Right, so I’ll phone before I get back—“

Emma interrupts, her voice quaking, “I’m sorry, miss, I told him you said not to let him in the house,”

“Look,” Tommy starts, fixing his glare on Hannah’s still flushed face, but not yet processing its implications, “It’s fucking cold out, ey? Look, I stayed in the foyer—didn’t bother your pretty little husband,” 

Just as the words leave his mouth, Daniel rounds the last of the stairs behind her. “Pretty, huh? Can’t say I’ve heard that one before.”

“Danny, this is—“

“Mr. Shelby,” Daniel puts on a smile, not a completely authentic one, but it didn’t seem_ all_ forced. Surprising both Tommy _and_ Hannah, Daniel extends his hand towards the other man. “Daniel Addison. Pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Shelby.”

“Thomas,” Tommy says, for once in his life not feeling in control of a situation, but shakes Daniels hand with a firm touch. “Shame we can’t stay and chat.”

“Shame indeed.” Daniel says, sipping from his glass—it was whiskey, and from the glint inTommy’s eyes he noticed that too. Hannah wishes he’d have left it upstairs. 

“Right,” Hannah interrupts, taking her husband by his jacket lapels. “Love you, Danny. I’ll call as soon as I can.” 

Wanting to respect Hannah, but still wanting to intimidate Tommy, Danny settles his hand on the small of her back and dips down to peck her lips. “Be safe, Hannah.” And with a curt nod at Thomas, “Mr. Shelby.” 

She stalks out to the car, a case in each hand, refusing to allow Tommy to help her load it in the boot. The cold air nips at her neck, still hot from where Daniel’s mouth had just been. When she shuts the boot and turns to get into the passenger’s side, Tommy is holding the door open for her.

Tongue in cheek, he leans in as she approaches, “He’s—"

“Not a fucking word of it, Thomas.” She reaches out and shuts the door. 

Though muffled slightly, she hears the soft sound of his chuckle. He stalks around the car and settles in beside her, turning the engine over. “I was just going to say—he wasn’t what I expected.” 

“And just what did you expect?” Her eyes flit over to him, a smug smile on his lips.

“I dunno,” He murmurs, “Like I said—a blond Yankee doc. Maybe some spectacles.” After a second of thinking he mutters, “Maybe a tad shorter. Maybe a bit rounder.”

“Well, he is blond.” Hannah says quietly, fighting a smile. 

“That he fucking is,” Tommy says, deadpan eyes cast on the road. “Isn’t he quite tall? For a doctor, I mean.”

Daniel had set out not to intimidate Tommy, as she’d assumed, but rather to make a decent impression of himself. He probably knew a man like Tommy would be quick to dismiss him, but he decided to give him an introduction he wouldn’t forget. A pawn in his little game, she was, but she couldn’t be bothered to care, not a fig. Instead, she has to fight a goofy smile from taking over her lips. She was proud—unbelievably proud—that Daniel had shaken Thomas so well.

“Doctors can't be tall?”

“Not that they can’t. They typically just—aren’t. _Whatever_, anyways,” Tommy snaps his attention back to his thoughts, “I saw you two through the upstairs window.” 

“No you didn’t.” She shakes her head. “Th’ light in the daytime hits the curtains just right—you can’t see a thing through them, until it gets dark. I’ve checked.” 

“Shadows, then,” Tommy shrugs, “I saw you two kiss in front of the window.” 

She sighs, “You saw me kiss my husband in the comfort of what I thought was our private bedroom. Alright. _And?_” 

“Well, Hannah,” He hums, and the grin on his lips gets a little darker, “Your well-staged kiss, the lovely little pink welts on your collar, and the fact that you’re wearing a different dress all tell me that I _may_ have underestimated your Daniel.” 

“You do have a history of underestimating people.” She hums in return, turning towards the window to hide the furious blush on her face. 

“Always lands me in a crock of shit, too.” He says and sighs. “Daniel may be more of a man than I took him for. I should have known, honestly. Takes a hell of a man to wrangle a woman like you, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose so.”


	8. “What does he do with a woman like you?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Birmingham, Hannah and John get into a bit of trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooooo. Giving you some OC/John feels today! We love a good heart-to-heart over here. xx

They’d driven straight to Small Heath, with only a bit of tense conversation between the two of them. Hannah could feel him looking at her whenever they hit a long, uninterrupted stretch of road, but she didn’t dare look at him.

Instead, she’d fixed her eyes on the landscape outside the window, gratefully looking at dying trees and mossy grass. 

The arrived at the Watery Lane Tenements, and Tommy somehow managed to hop around the car, grab her case, and open her door before she had the chance to. She didn’t question him though. She realized that questioning Tommy Shelby was not worth the trouble it brought. 

John met them at the door. “Well look at you two, ey?” 

Tommy only brushed past him, but Hannah fixed a glare at his stupid blue eyes. 

“Sorry love.” He grins, “What trouble were you two up to?” 

“Your brothers kidnapped me yesterday.” She folds her arms across her chest. “Drugged and dragged me to London.” 

“I’m sorry, Hannah!” Finn’s little voice came from behind John, who elbows him square in the chest. 

“It’s quite alright Finn.” Hannah mumbles, making her way through the door. “I’m quite past it, now.” 

“I see that,” John mumbles, catching a glimpse of her neck as she passed him. “Bet you got a bit busy in London, then?”

“Oi,” Tommy calls from across the kitchen. “None of that.” 

John put his hands up defensively, and just then Polly made her way down the stairs. 

“What’s this of a kidnapping?” She asked, pulling Finn to her and smoothing down his hair. 

“Your nephew dragged me off to London to meet with Mr. Solomons.” 

Polly shoots Tommy a glare, but he doesn’t blink, he only hums out, “Yes, and she made us thirty thousand pounds of _legal_ currency.”

None of them say it—but their silence said enough. They’d needed that money. Hannah didn’t press it though. She would find out what was going on, sooner or later. 

“Glad I could be of your service, Mr. Shelby.” She hums, with a roll of her eyes. 

“Hannah, doll,” John coos, and wraps his arms around her shoulders, “D’you fancy getting just a _little_ drunk after all that excitement?”

“Fuckin’ hell, I thought you’d never ask.” She grabs her purse. 

“Oi!” Polly calls, and the two of them pause to look at her. “It’s barely half-past eleven?” 

“There’s an allotted time to get pissed now? In this family?” John snorts.

“Hannah’s got a job to do, John.” Tommy drones out. 

“And I think I’ll start it at the Garrison today.” Hannah arches an eyebrow. 

“I’m off there anyway—I’ve got to count today.” John argues.

“Right, then, we’ll be back—whenever.” Hannahchimes, and they’re through the door, hand in hand, just like when they were teenagers. 

John’s laugh was still as infectious, still as bubbly and boyish as it had been when they were kids. The Garrison wasn’t far, just down the street from the tenements. She remembered playing outside the pub as a girl, then as she grew older, being sent there with John to collect the dues. 

Unfortunately, the Shelby’s hadn’t disclosed that there weren’t lots of things that could be fixed at the Garrison. Evidently there had been a bombing, and they had renovated the space. Needless to say, John enjoyed the look of bewilderment on her face as she walked in and glared at the gold fixings.At least John was excused—he didn’t know what work it was she’d come to do. Tommy’s omission was probably just his way of inconveniencing her for the day.

“Look at all this—” She ran her finger over the embossed bar top. “You boys really have gone Hollywood on me.” 

“That ain’t true,” John argues, pulling crates out from under the floorboards. “We’re still the same lot you left here.” 

John hadn’t meant it maliciously, but_ you left here_ didn’t sit well with her. She smoothed her skirts down and started for the little room off the front of the pub. 

“Y’know, Ada likes to remind us where we came from, like we’ve fuckin’ forgot. She’s always on about how we all tend to settle in the kitchen at the big house. Y’know, where the servants would be.” He calls out to her, still heaving boxes around. 

She’s listening to him, of course, but still marvels at what they’d done to the bar. The side room had expanded—it had fresh moldings at the ceiling and the flooring. Marble tiles lined the floors, and there'w large mahogany furniture.

“M’not no commie, but she’s right about that. I think we’ll always be Brummie, gypsy trash, n’matter how many fancy suits Tommy shoves us into.” 

“Things are different now, that’s for certain.” 

She finds herself plopping down on a barstool across from John, looking at the crates he’d opened already. Rows of pistols gleamed lightly in the sunlight. She reaches forward and slides a pistol into her palm, and drops the magazine out to look down it. Shiny, golden bullets stacked into a neat, precise line look back at her.

“Easy with that, Hannah,” John murmurs, sliding the toothpick in his mouth to the other side, “Tommy’ll take my balls if you hurt yourself.” 

“Tommy’s not here,” She whines, yanking the top of the pistol back and watching it snap back into place. “C’mon John, let me help so we can drink.”

“What about the _business_ he’s sent you to do?” He asks, but doesn’t lift his head from his task. She doesn’t miss the inflection around the word, either. He was upset; Tommy wasn’t cueing him in on certain aspects of the business. 

She _would_ explain, Tommy’s rules about discretion be damned, but she wasn’t sure she understood her job here completely, either.

“Nothing more to be done here, I’ve made my list of suggested repairs.” She huffs, setting the gun back down.

“Right. Well, your Lee boys have arrived.” He points at the front door with his toothpick. Patrick and Leander are stood outside the front doors, shoulder to shoulder. 

“You won’t be long right?” She hops up from the stool, gazing over the bar at the selection of liquor. “I’ll just wait for you.”

He nods, and fixes his eyes on her dress. She’d discarded her coat earlier, so John’s eyes land on her navy blue dress. “Never thought I’d see you in a dress like that—London’s changed you, hasn’t it?”

She follows his eyes to the fabric covering her. If she were him, she wouldn’t have thought that Hannah Belgrave would ever don a dress like this one, either; but she wasn’t Hannah Belgrave anymore. John’s voice sounded wistful, and she couldn’t help but wonder why. He’d married. He had a tribe of wonderful children. A lovely home, if Tommy had anything to do with it. Why was he still looking back?

The _style_ of the dress is probably what John was alluding to, though. It was a result of the current flapper trend, a sheath dress with excess fabric used to create little draped sections at each shoulder and each hip. This particular one she’d had made to please Daniel—the deep navy color was his favorite.

She spins, dramatic as always, and waggles her eyebrows at him, “That it has, Johnny Boy. City life has made me familiar with danger and excess. That’s why _this_ is boring. Birmingham is just—boring.” 

“You deserve that, Hannah.” He says, more seriously than Hannah thinks she’s ever heard him speak. “I’m glad you’re happy.”

The smile fades off of her lips. “What do you mean? You’re happy too, aren’t you?” 

He smiles, but it’s not a happy one—it’s rueful, and solemn, and suddenly, it reminded her strongly of Thomas. 

“Things are different now, love.” He huffs, “We used to be a team—Pol, Arthur, Tommy and I. Now it’s the Thomas Shelby Show, in case you couldn’t tell.” 

She scoffs, “Tommy’s always been selfish, but we make do—we put the family first, right?”

“Right,” He scoffs, “You’ve been gone a _long_ time, Hannah. Tommy is…different now. He isn’t the boy you remember him being.” 

“You’re wrong.” She folds her arms across her chest, and the spark in her voice made John look up. “He’s exactly the same, and it’s infuriating. _He_ hadn’t changed. His circumstances have. You’ve all got money and power now, and you haven’t been keeping him in check. So he does what he wants, says what he wants, and gets away with it.” 

John gives her a lopsided smile. “Sounds like someone met the new Tommy.” 

“Your brother is Icarus, darling. And you lot are letting him fly closer and closer to the sun.” She wags a finger. “Someone needs to check that man before he bursts aflame and burns you all down with him.” 

“You say that, but you don’t _know_, Hannah.” He says, like there’s a weight over his head. “He’s different—he’s so far removed now, it’s like we don’t even know him.”

“What on earth—”

“Half us of almost fucking hung, Hannah.” He says quietly, but she hears the strain in his voice. “And I guarantee you, the only reason Tommy bothered to get us pardoned was because he’d need us to hang at another, more _convenient_ time.” 

“That’s not—”

“We’ve all become pawns to him, Hannah.” He shakes his head, but continues checking the guns. “Little pieces in his game, and doesn’t give a shit which of us he loses.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. So instead, she reaches over the bar and takes a bottle of scotch and two glasses.

“Fuckin’ hell.” She whispered, setting the glass down beside him. “I don’t know John. I don’t know.”

“Neither do we.” He shrugs, and shots the bit of liquid in the glass. She quickly refills it. “He’s a good man—God, we know he’s a good man. But hell if doesn’t make it difficult to stand him.” 

She felt something else now—something she hadn’t felt in so long that it almost frightened her. _Rage_. Tommy had a bit of a history with setting her into fits of rage. 

“What a cunt.” She hummed, taking a sip herself. “Someone ought to hand him his ass. What’s he thinking, taking advantage of the only people who care about him? Fuckin’ idiot.” 

John started laughing so hard, he almost choked. “Jesus, Hannah.”

“I’m serious! Is anyone else gonna care about him the way you all do? Absolutely fuckin’ not. To know Tommy Shelby is either to hate him or to fear him, and he’s ostracizing the handful of people who don’t want him dead. Absolute cunt behavior.” 

“Haven’t prayed a day in my life, but I’ll be praying for your husband.” John grins, “What does he do with a woman like you?”

“Like me?” She folds her arms across her chest.

“Like you.” He repeats, putting another now fully loaded handgun into the crate. “All independent and wily.”

She grins at his choice of words. “John Shelby, are you calling me clever?”

“Not if it gives you an even bigger head.” He grumbles to himself.

“Well,” She huffs, “He has his work, and he lets me have mine. I suppose letting me busy myself keeps me out of his hair.”

“Sounds familiar,” He scoffs, and grins, taking the glass she’d poured for him. “Just like Grace and Tommy.”

The grin on his lips fades when he realizes she hadn’t the foggiest idea what he meant, “Sorry?”

“He hasn’t told you?” John furrows his eyebrows, registering the fact that he’d apparently let a secret slip.

“Told me what?”

“They just had a similar arrangement.” He shrugs, trying to convince her but failing miserably. She could see it in the grin he was trying to stifle, and the way his lips curled up around the glass—there was something worth hearing there.

She crosses her legs and glares at him. "Did they, now?" 

"Mhm," He hums, "I wasn't...a fan of Grace." 

"So I heard." She takes another sip. "Neither was Polly, it seemed." 

"None of us were. Except her husband." He sighs, plopped another pistol into the case. 

"Was she not—" She started, but the larger Lee boy, Patrick, had yelled something. It was in Romani, and although she hadn't spoken a lick of the language for just about ten years, she still caught it. 

The two of them leaped into action, John clicking the pistol in his hand together, and Hannah reaching for her own. They hear the squeal of tires on the street, then the sound of several gunshots sent them both to the floor. 

John crawled near the window, and shouted at Hannah, "Get to the cellar!"

“What? No!" She returned, settling just beside him. Once the shots stopped, they peered over the window sill, but a ricochet of shots clip into the window from the outside, shattering the glass. John got a few shots in, but she didn't even see where the shots were coming from. 

Romani slips off of John's tongue quickly, _"How many of them, Leander?" _

The other Lee boy responds quickly. _"Two, in the car."_

John looks up again, and so Hannah does too. It's a dark-colored, expensive car. One man is half-way out of it, This time, they manage to shatter the driver's window. Hannah gets a shot in the passenger, and he falls back onto the street. 

In an instant, the car’s tires were squealing again, and it peeled off up the street. 

“Are you alright?” John yells, frantically touching Hannah’s face, looking for wounds. 

“I’m fine.” She huffs, “What the hell was that?” 

“I don’t know—” He says, but Hannah can tell from the frantic look in his eye, that he was lying. 

The two of them step out onto the street. John rushes over to the Lees, but Hannah steps forward, peering at the dead man. He’s warm-skinned, what she would have called a beautiful olive tone if he hadn’t been _shooting at them_, just moments ago. He’s got a bit of a mustache, and a peaked fedora hat had fallen off, exposing a head of thick, jet black hair. 

An Italian. 

_Why were Italians shooting at the Garrison?_

“Hannah,” John called, and when she turned back, she saw it. Patrick was on his side, bleeding profusely. “Get the Lee's car.” 

* * *

“What the hell?” Polly asks as they burst through the doors, but seeing the fear on John’s face changes her question, “Are you hurt?”

“No,” He says, and heaves the Lee boy up into the doorway, “But he is.”

“Who the fuck is this?” Polly furrows her eyebrows, and follows John into the betting room, she swipes some papers off of a table and helps John lay him down. “Where the hell is Hannah?”

“I’m here,” she calls, shutting the front door behind her.Finn appears in the doorway, no doubt checking in on the commotion to make sure no one was dying. She barks out at him, “Finn, get me a fresh bottle of whiskey and the medic’s kit.” Finn stalls, slack jawed and staring at her, so she snaps, “Now, Finn.”

He scuttles off, and she settles down beside the bleeding Lee boy, turning him over and ripping the hem of his shirt away from the wound. She folds it over and presses it down against his skin. He groans, and Hannah coos at him. 

Polly, too springs into action, throwing her glass of whiskey over her hands and rubbing, then taking hold of the scrap of of cloth from Hannah’s bloodied hands. “Let me, dear. You’re fucking bleeding, yourself.” 

“What?” Hannah looks down at herself. She doesn’t see any blood, beside the Lee boy’s on her hands. John reaches out and touches her cheek, and she recoils at the pain. She pulls his hand back, showing her the blood that came from her cheek. She grumbles, “Just a scratch from the window. I’ll be fine.” She calls out to Finn again, just as he rounds the corner with the supplies.

She hands John the bottle, and, an experienced soldier, he cracks it open and pours some over her digits. He sets it down and opens up the case, and Hannah moves with him like it’s a partnered dance, taking a cloth and cleaning the mouth of the bottle, just for safety. “Right, Polly,” She says, and Pol moves the cloth away. “John, hold him down.”

She takes the tweezers, and immediately after, the tip dips under his skin. She yanks the shell out, dropping it onto the table. The mouth of the bottle flips over, almost _in_ the hole in his skin, and his shoulders buck up against John’s hands. It’s over in less than fifteen seconds. John murmurs praise down at him. “Yer good, man—we’re almost done. This is the worst part, I promise.” 

Hannah pours a little more over the wound, hating the sound it made when it trickled off his body and down to the floor, but she also doesn’t want John to be responsible for killing a man he didn’t intend to. He’d been on the floor of the Garrison, the back of a car, and she’s sure John had dropped him at least once getting him into the betting shop—the risk of infection was too high to forgo disinfecting.

There was a panicked silence now, just the labored breathing of the young Lee boy and the clinks of the two women working. It was interrupted by heavy steps and shouts coming from the back of the shop. The sound grew as it approached, until Thomas rounded the corner, fury evident on his face and in his voice, “What the fuck has happened, now? Why is there a dead wop outside of the Garrison? The fuckin’ coppers are swarming the place.” His eyes settle on the man on the table. He glances twice, making sure he didn’t recognise the face, before asking, “And who the fuck is this?”

John begins stuttering an explanation, but it only proved to further infuriate Tommy. Polly and Hannah seemed to ignore him, continuing their work on him. When Hannah turns her face to take something else out of the kit John was holding, Tommy explodes, “Hannah’s fucking bleeding, John! Why haven’t you called the doctor?”

“Oi,” Hannah snaps, pointing a bloodied finger at Tommy. “Not fuckin’ now. You want to ream John out, fine, but you’ll wait until he’s done here.” 

Tommy quiets, out of shock more so than compliance, but Hannah continues her work nonetheless. Polly takes the clean rags and wipes down his skin around the wound, as Hannah prepared a suture needle. John looks up at her. “Are you mad? You’re going to stitch him up?”

“A wound that big isn’t going to stop bleeding unless he’s got sutures, John.” She says, handing the half-empty bottle down to the boy’s lips. “Drink. All of it.” 

Polly holds the bottle to his lips and in a flash its contents are gone. Hannah takes the forceps and begins the knots. Tommy, John and Polly watch as her hands expertly complete the set of sutures, and where the boy had just had a gaping hole with a bullet lodged in it a fewmoments ago, there was a thin neat line of stitches that probably wouldn’t even scar. 

“Right, so, bandages?” She says, setting the forceps down. John blinks and hands her a roll of medical tape andgauze. She wraps him up neatly, and gently pats her hand on the completed job. “Good job, kid, you're all set.” 

“He’s—asleep.” Polly whispers. “Fell asleep when you started his stitches. Where the fuck did you learn to do that?”

“Danny served in the war—” She starts, but Tommy interrupts her.

“Family _fucking_ meeting. Now.” He barks, and heads towards his office. 

They send glances at one another, and Polly whispers at her,  “Get your face cleaned up before you head in.” Then, she looks up at Finn. “Love, get Arthur. Tell him what's happened before he gets here. I have a feeling when we get in there, things will happen pretty quickly.” 


	9. "if you don’t get through this window, I will kill you."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The family meeting doesn't end very well, and Hannah finally gets the truth from Tommy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! Wow, the comments have been just lovely thus far! Thank you all! 
> 
> This chapter should hopefully clear up some questions about the timeline. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy! xx

Polly was right. Things did start moving quickly. Hannah had barely gotten into the room before things started escalating.

Thomas was seething. He’d thrown a full bottle of whiskey at the wall, and the scent was wafting through the air—hot and spicy, just as his words. “This is _unacceptable_. She could have been fucking _hurt_.” 

“And? She wasn’t” John huffs back, fixing his jacket, as Tommy had grabbed him by it a moment ago. “You really think I’d let something happen to Hannah? None of us would let that happen._ Including_ Hannah.”

“Shut up.” Thomas barks. “Both of you, just _shut up_.” 

Arthur shifts in his seat. Poor sod. He didn’t even really know what was happening, but seeing the look on Hannah’s face, he decides to try, “You think you’d be able to tell Hannah to stay put and she’d listen? Because I don’t.” 

Hannah sighs, “_Boys_—“

“Well that’s why you _make_ her stay put. You could have left her with Pol, or Ada, or locked her in the fucking _basement_ for all I care!”

“I am _right _ here.” Hannah yells. “_In the room_. With you all.”

“Not now.” Tommy barks, showing her a pointed index finger. His eyes are narrowed, but she can see the ice blue of his irises shooting daggers out at her. “Not _fucking_ now, Hannah.”

“Yes _fucking_ now.” She yells back. “Look—you didn’t drag me from London to sit in the house all day. You asked me here to solve your problem, and your brother was just helping do that, is all, seeing as though you refuse to let me get on with it.”

“You think I’m doing that purposefully?” Tommy snaps back, stalking over to her. John and Arthur both leap up to restrain him, if need be, but he looks over his shoulder and barks “_Fucking sit down.”_

John scoffs something under his breath, but Hannah sees from the look on Thomas’ face that it wasn’t something good.

His voice is stern—Thomas Shelby’s voice was always stern—but the edge on the words makes Hannah grateful that their aunt stood between them. “What did you say, John?”

“Nothing—“

“I’ve asked you what you said, John!” Tom yells, making both John and Arthur flinch. 

“Y’know what?” John asks, shoving himself up out of the chair, “I said you’re fucking _mad_ Tommy. Hannah likely saved my life today. And you want to send her away, for what? To call her back in a day? Like she’s some _thing_ you own?”

“She’s a fixer.” Tommy shrugs, but his eyes betray the nonchalant gesture. They’re tense, cutting down everyone he glanced at. It made them second guess themselves until they returned to their seats, mumbling to themselves, just as John twas doing right then. “She fixes things for the Cockneys for a pretty fuckin’ penny, why _wouldn’t_ I call her here when we needed things fixed? And fuckin’ fix it she did—”

“That’s not what he meant, and you know it Tommy.” Arthur spits, but when Tommy’s glare settles on him, he looks away. 

“You guys are going to act like this isn’t a problem—another liability—“

Hannah interrupts. “I’m a liability, am I Tommy?”

He spins around to look at her, but Polly put herself further between them.“Pol, move.”

She folds her arms across her chest.

“What?” Have you got something to say, too?” He asks, glaring at Polly. 

“Anything I could say would just be your conscious speaking aloud. Clearly you don’t want that tonight.”

“You’re siding with John, then?” He huffs out, “What? Like he doesn’t know better than to be so reckless at a time like this—”

“‘At a time like this’?” Hannah asks, watching the Shelbys all look away from her. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Tommy breathes.

“Nothing?” She shouts, then looks at Pollyanna. “Pol, what the hell does that mean? Are you all in some sort of trouble?” 

Polly doesn’t look at her. She keeps her eyes fixed on Tommy, who keeps _his_ eyes on her, each of them daring the other to break. 

“Look,” Hannah shouts again, her little body so angry she’d begun shaking. “You don’t get to pluck me out of my life and drag me back to Small Heath, _and_ lie to me, Thomas.” 

“Hannah—”

“No, don’t you fuckin’ _‘Hannah’_ me.” She yells. “That’s it—someone tells me right now just what the fuck is going on, why _Italians_ shot up the Garrison with me and John inside, or you can launder the rest of that money your fuckin’ selves.” 

Tommy takes a breath, and John looks expectantly at his brother. 

“Go on, Tom.” John grits out. “Done enough lying today, haven’t you?”

Tommy looks at the ceiling, a man clearly losing his patience. “This is not the time, nor the place for this conversation. There is a dead man outside of our pub, and you’re the one who fuckin’ shot him.”

“Actually, I shot him.” Hannah folds her arms across her chest. 

Tommy closes his eyes, as though that had been the last straw. “Everyone out. We need to talk logistics.” 

Slowly, Finn rose to his feet. Michael, too, grabbed his jacket and started for the door. Esme patted John on the shoulder, and followed behind them. Then, Hannah realized that the remaining Shelbys were looking at her expectantly. 

“Am I not allowed?” She arches an eyebrow, and waltzed straight up to Tommy, looking up at him in the eye. “You gonna tell me to leave then? Like the little ones and the wives?”

“Hannah,” Polly says, her voice a clear warning. 

“No, I want to know!”

“C’mon Tom. She’s got as much of a right to be here as the rest of us.” 

“Is that what you think this is?” Tommy looks up at him, “You think they shot up the Garrison for what, for show? They’re looking for Shelby blood, brother.” 

“And?” Hannah pressed. She was so close to him now, she could feel the heat coming off of his body. “And what, Tommy?” 

“You are not a Shelby.” 

He didn’t even hesitate. Not even slightly. The words came from him like it was just a fact that he didn’t even feel the need to justify saying out loud. 

Hannah felt a twang of something spiteful in her stomach, and felt the sting of tears threatening to appear. 

“Right.” She says, quietly this time. 

“Hannah,” Tommy takes a breath, and tries to reach for her elbow. 

“Don’t touch me, Tommy.” She snaps, and immediately turns to leave.

John and Arthur start to call out to her, but she doesn’t stop. She steps out of the betting room, and shuts the doors behind her.

* * *

A couple of days went by, but Hannah had found somewhere to stay in Small Heath. Finding a friend of a friend and the toss of the Shelby name could get her anywhere in this city. As pissed as she was with Tommy, and the rest of that family, she still wanted to help him. She was still going to finish laundering the cash—she might as well, considering she’d gotten half-way through the sum. 

Thomas sent a message with Patrick Lee that morning, saying Polly would be around to pick up the latest ledger. She’d talk to her then, and let her know that she wasn’t giving up on the job they’d asked of her, she’d just be continuing it from London. 

So she’d tidied the space, and waited. Around noon, a car pulled up, but it wasn’t Polly’s car. It was Tommy’s. 

He stalks over to the door with the air of a man on a mission—mission to do what, she wasn’t sure. Patrick didn’t even bother letting him knock. He simply opened the door to the flat for him with a curt ‘_Mr. Shelby’._

_God_ she hated that. Arthur and John were just as much _Mr. Shelby_ as Tommy was. Why did everyone go around mumbling his name with such reverence?

“Hannah,” Tommy breathed out, the chill of the air outside following him in. 

“Thomas.” 

“You should come back to the flat.” Tommy murmurs around a cigarette, the way he does when he’s got more to say but decides to hold it back. Hannah hated seeing him off his game. She always could get a read on those Shelby boys better than anyone else could—apart from Polly. Thomas has tells. Eyes that don’t focus on his prey—not uncommon to him, in and of itself—but when they dance around the room like a man avoiding a past lover at a dance, and he _refused_ to look at her, there was something else behind his words. “Everyone misses you.”

“Better I’m gone, Tommy.” Hannah says, retrieving all of the books from their place on her shelf. “I’ll be back in London soon enough, anyway. Here’s the last of it—“

“_I_ miss you.” He cuts her off. Not aggressively, he didn’t talk _over_ her like he normally does. He just says it simply, putting it into the air to settle wherever it may. 

Hannah doesn’t look up at him, because _no_, that would be suicide. She couldn’t set herself up for failure like that. So she clears her throat and continues.

“Right, well, n’matter how nasty you are to me, Tommy, I promised you that I’d do a job.” She starts, not waiting for him to finish. “I’ve got less than half of it all left, so it shouldn’t take me but another week.” 

“Is that so?” His voice even, as though he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on her. 

“Yes, but I’ll finish it in London.” She finally turns, handing him the ledger. 

His face is soft, apologetic, and he looks so much more like the boy she remembers him as, rather than the hard man he’d become. 

“It’s not safe to leave, yet.” 

“Yes,” She says, the word dripping with sarcasm, “The great big threat none of you will explain to me, of course. Well, I doubt it’ll follow me to London.” 

“Hannah—”

“Hold your breath, because you’re not changing my mind, Tommy.”

“I can’t just let you go back there, Hannah, there’s no one to watch over you in London.”

She laughs, a flutter of a sound that gave Tommy chills, “For fuck’s sake, what could I need protecting from in London? What is it that’s got you so wound up? Who are you hiding from?” 

“Look.” He closes his eyes, the way he does when his patience is wearing thin. “If you don’t know, then they can’t get to you.”

“Love, they’ve already shot up the Garrison. Whoever’s been watching you already knows I’ve been staying with you.” 

“Exactly why you ought to stay put!” His voice raises. 

The air changed around them. It was warm and familiar a second ago, lit with the bickering of old friends, and now it was dense and stifling, as if a business deal had gone terribly wrong. “But you want to go back to London. Back to him.”

“You meanDaniel?”She asks, stupidly, she realizes after she’s asked it. Of course he meant Daniel. 

“Yes. Daniel.” He hums the name, but it sounds like a curse coming from his lips. He shoves his hands in his pockets. 

“Well, he is my husband, isn’t he?” She asks, glaring at him.

“Yes.”

“And I do live with him.”

“_Yes_.” He scoffs, “Making a point at all?”

“Well, if by _him_ you meant Daniel, _my_ Daniel, my loving husband who I share a home with, then you already knew where I’d be going in the morning, wouldn’t you?”

He sighs, turning away from her. She couldn’t help but wish to see the look on his face. “I suppose so.”

“Yet you came.” She sits. “And yet, you asked.”

“Yet I did.” He says, avoiding her eyes as he turns around to face her again. Quickly, a blur of white escapes his pocket and slaps on the table. Papers. “I’ve got a proposal for you.”

“What sort of proposal, Thomas?”

“My name is Tommy.” He snaps, flipping the packet of papers open. “Full-time bookkeeper.”

She scoffs. “A job? _Here_, in Birmingham, innit?”

“Naturally. Most of our businesses are here in Small Heath—“

“No.” She says simply, filling a glass with whiskey. 

“With skills like yours you should be bringing in two-to-three times more than you are in London—“

“Because I don’t take work in London.” She takes a swig. “I _live_ in London. With my husband, who provides me with more than enough to live comfortably.”

“Then just _stay_ here for a few more weeks!” He shouts. “Just—why won’t you let me keep you safe?” 

“And what of my husband, hm?” She stalks towards him. “He’ll think I’ve run off on him. It could be weeks, Tommy, he’ll think—”

“He’ll think you’ve run off with me?” Tommy asks, glaring down at her. He takes two encompassing steps closer, walking her backwards. “Is that what you mean?” 

“Tommy,” She warns. He was close, _too_ close to her, and she would not be held liable for whatever harm she caused if he were close enough for her to hurt him. 

“Is it?” He tilts his head, challenging her. “Because the Hannah I remember wouldn’t so much have minded that.” 

Instinctively, she slapped him. 

He stood there, head still tilted away, before breathing out sharply. 

“I am faithful to my husband, Thomas.” 

“I bet you are.” 

She reaches up to slap him again, but he catches her wrist. His fist completely eclipses wrist, like she was this frail little thing that he could toss around. That infuriates her, so within the second, she uses her _other_ hand to slap the other side of his face. 

“I will _not—” _Hannah starts, but she’s interrupted by Tommy shoving her down to the ground. 

She had been so angry, she hadn’t heard the peel of tires on the street outside. She _did_, however, hear the sound of the front windows shattering. 

Tommy’s body covered hers, his arms tightly around her waist. How the _hell_ were they going to survive in that position? He’s only trying to protect her, she knows, but he wouldn’t be _alive_ to do any protecting if they didn’t get up. 

He has a child—he has a family. If Tommy got shot protecting her, she’d never forgive herself. 

So, she kicks him square in the stomach. 

Her gun had been on the side table, so she snatches it up and braces against the window. Peering over the edge, she notices the same car from before—or at least the same make, and two men yelling at each other. She takes the opportunity to shoot the one closest to her. 

“Come now,” Tommy reaches out for her hand, but she doesn’t even look at him twice. She peeks over the window sill again—she’d clipped the first man in the shoulder, but another car was pulling up behind the first. 

So she took Tommy’s hand, and followed him through the flat. He shoved one of the rear-facing windows open, and gestured to it. 

“Go.” 

“Go?” She glares. “I’m not going without you, Tommy.”

“For fuck’s sake, _go_, Hannah!”

The sound of his voice was so harsh that she’d flinched, but went through the window nonetheless. He’d turned to head back—back _towards_ the shooting_—_so she reaches through the window frame and grabs him by his shirt.

“Thomas Shelby, I swear to _fucking_ God, if you don’t get through this window, I will kill you.” 

He stares at her, and she notices that his eyes aren’t scared or frantic as she imagines her’s are. He doesn’t look calm—not by any stretch of the imagination—but he does look a bit misplaced. Like he didn’t understand what she was asking.

He concedes, though, and follows her through the window.

Patrick is out back as well, and a few more Lee men are there as well. They are stood around a crate—one of the crates that John had been counting at the Garrison—outfitting themselves with as many as they could handle. 

“I can’t stay,” Tommy says to the Lees. 

Patrick nods. “Yessir, Mr. Shelby. Take Missus Belgrave back to th’ Lane.” 

Hannah paused. They were talking as though ‘Missus Belgrave’ wasn’t standing right there.

“Come now,” Tommy says, taking her shoulder. He pulls her to the car, all but tosses her in, and hops around to the other side. 

They spun off of the back street just as shots began to ring out behind them.She was turned completely aroundin the seat, watching the carnage happening behind her. 

Without warning, a shot shatters the car’s rear window. Tommy yanked her down into his lap, just as the bullet embedded in the back of the seat where she’d been peaking. 

After a moment, she forces his hand off of her and sits up. Things began to click together. The Lees were ready for a fight—Tommy was ready for a fight. 

“What the hell was that?” She yells at him.

“Hannah—”

“No!” She screams, which makes Tommy flinch. “Tell me what the hell is happening, right now!”

“I can’t—“

She reaches forward and yanks the emergency brake up, and the car squeals to a halt. Against his protest, she flings her door open, and stalks around to his door, yanking that one open too, and grabbing him by the collar. 

“I have been shot at. _Twice_ now.” She yells, “What the hell were the Lees doing there? Was—was I _bait_ just then?”

“Hannah, we’re can't just stop here—”

“I swear to _God_, Tommy, I’ll—“

“You’ll what? You’ll what, ey?” He snaps, raising his voice so loud that Hannah worries he'll attract attention from the neighboring houses. “Everything I’ve done, I’ve done because I owe it to you to keep you fucking safe!”

“You don’t owe me—”

“You decided to leave Watery Lane, even though Polly and Finn begged you not to.” He shouts, pointing an angry finger back at the apartments. “They got to you here because we weren’t there, where I could keep you safe!” 

“I—,” She frowns, never having seen him look this angry. “I would have stayed, had you have just explained this all to me.” 

“We’ve pissed off the Italians.” He spreads his arms out, laying it all on the table. “John put one of them in the hospital, then I gave the order to kill him.” 

She furrows her eyebrows. They did this sort of thing all the time. Tit-for-tat, such was the game of the gangs around here. Why was this any different? 

Sensing his little explanation was not enough for her, he takes a breath. “They put a hit on me. Got close enough to kill me. They killed Grace, instead.” 

She pauses. Everything stood still, and things began falling into place.

“Tommy I’m—”

“So we killed the kid’s father.” He adds, his voice hoarse. 

_God_, he looked so tired. Tired of running, tired of killing, tired of it all. 

“So then who—”

“The last remaining son.” He answers her unfinished question. “Luca Changretta.” 

She recoils, recognizing his name. She’d done a bit of work for the men in liquor running in New York. Never with Changretta, though. Alfie had warned her against it. Plus, she'd heard stories. Heads put in boxes and mailed across the sea, just to prove a point. Men tied to anchors and dropped into harbors. People and their families going missing in the dead of night—she'd heard it all in regards to the Americans. 

“Tom, he’s—he's mafia, isn't he?” 

“I know.”

"You know what those men do to people?" Her voice is soft, scared. 

"I do." He says, simply, but he doesn't look up at her. Another one of his tells—he's scared, too. 

She reaches a hand up to her face, and realizes it's shaking. “Did you—did you get a black hand?” 

“Yes.” He sighs. “He says he’s coming for us. He wants to kill me last, apparently.” 

“Tom—”

“Look, we’re sitting duck’s out here.” He huffs, as though he knew where she was going. “Please, just get back in the fucking car.” 

She looks at him, at the utter defeat in his eyes, and it frightens her, because Tommy Shelby never lost. 

“Yes.” She nods, “Of course.”

She swears that she hears him say 'thank you__' as she got in the car, but she didn't dare mention it aloud. 


	10. "You’re going to take his fuckin’ eyes."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Shelbys regroup at Arrow House.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I had a bit of a mix-up there, where chapter 11 accidentally posted before 10. Sorry for any confusion! 
> 
> If you've enjoyed She's a Shelby so far, you might enjoy my other Peaky fic, Always a Thief, which I'll be posting the first few chapters of tonight as well.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! xx

_Clear as she could hear her heart beating in her chest, she can still remember the chill of the winter air on her skin, as it had been that night. Cold and alone, she staggered her way up Watery Lane, to the Shelby tenements, her home. No one else was on the street that night, she remembers, but even if there had been a soul nearby, she doubts they would have helped her. The English were a fickle people—especially the dirty Brummie folk—and a girl wandering the streets in the early hours of the morning, in tattered, hanging clothes at that, was all too strange of a scene to intervene on. _

_The door, rough and wooden, irritated her face when she pushed up against it. She didn’t have keys—she’d lost them in the scuffle—and she couldn’t get her cold, stiff fingers around the door-handle to open it, either. So, she leaned on the old wooden door, all of her weight against it, and tapped the back of her hand on it. _

_A strong yank from the inside landed her flat on her face in the foyer. In her now dizzied field of vision, she could make out a pair of leather boots. Shouts fill her ears and she groans at the sudden ringing they left behind._

_“Stop fuckin’ shouting,” She croons, eyes fluttering shut. In her thoughts, or rather the lack there of, she thought she was home, and that she could sleep now._

_Those large hands take a shoulder in each hand and yank her to her feet, and she’s taken away from the comfort of the hall’s rug against her face. She groans, and as those hands release her, she slumps forward against their chest. She hadn’t registered which brother had just become her resting place, but she didn’t care either._

_After a moment, she could make out the voice—it was John whose chest became a pillow for the head she couldn’t manage to keep up any longer. He was shouting now, and she could hear the scuffle of feet. Again, deep male voices talked over one another and she couldn’t be bothered to decipher them, she just leaned further against John and let her eyes close._

_Stark through the commotion, she could hear one voice—because it had silenced the others almost instantly. Tommy’s._

_“Can she stand?” He asks quietly, and then changes his question, “Is she drunk?”_

_Hannah manages a weak ‘No.’, but John still grasps her jaw and clucks her mouth open, taking a quick whiff. “No, I don’t think so.”_

_“Look at her eyes, she’s fuckin’ hopped up off something!” Arthur’s voice booms, but it quiets when she feels the fabric around her thighs shift in his grasp. More muscle memory than intent, she quickly flinches away from him, lifting her knee to kick at him. “Fuckin’ hell—“_

_“Who did this to you?” John asks, pulling her away from his chest, but still holding her up by her shoulders, “Hannah, who the fuck did this to you?”_

_“Let me get my coat,” She hears Tommy whisper, Arthur agree by way of a grunt, and the sound of the coat closet opening. “Whoever the fucker is, he won’t live to hear the morning chime.”_

_Polly’s arrival is announced by a croaky, “What the bloody hell are you all up this early for?”, followed by a gentle, “Oh, fuck.”_

_Hannah felt the soft touch of her palm on her back, and leans further into John’s chest, in part because he was warm and she was very, very cold, and in part to shy away from Polly’s gesture of pity. _

_“Polly, take her,” John whispers, shifting Hannah in his arms, “I want to knock this fucker’s teeth out his head—“_

_“He didn’t hurt me, John.I didn’t let him.” Hannah whispers, but the boys don’t stop dressing. Rather, Tommy just looks over at her and settles his flat cap on his head snugly. The razors in the hem glint softly in the lamp-light. _

_“Well, he fuckin’ tried, didn’t he? ” Tommy says with narrowed eyes, and pops out the lapels on his jacket, “That’s enough for me to want him dead. ’S that enough for you boys?”_

_“More than enough for me, Tommy,” Arthur says, pawing through the closet for his gloves. _

_John, somehow,, seemed the least geared up for this fight, he casts his eyes down on her and they almost twinkle with concern, “Who was it?”_

_“Tommy there’s no need—“_

_“Who the fuck was he, Hannah?” he repeats John’s question, not raising his voice, but communicating enough urgency to make her respond._

_“Watson.” She says quietly. “The blacksmith’s son.”_

_“Fuckin’ kike,” Tommy curses, snatching the bat Polly kept behind the bannister. “Can you walk?”_

_She looks up at him and squints. “I’m fine, Thomas.”_

_“Good. Grab a coat, let’s go.” He says, garnering glares from his brothers and aunt alike. After Arthur protests, he adds, “Well, she ought to be the one to do it, don’t you think?”_

_Silence cloaks the front room as they all glance at Hannah. Polly speaks first, suggesting Hannah is in no state to go out again. Hannah, however replayed the words in her head until she understood what he’d meant. _

_“I don’t want to kill him.” Hannah interrupts, sobering up rather quickly at his implication._

_“Good. Then one of us will kill him.” He nods, trifling though the closet. He tosses a scrap of thick tweed fabric at her. Looking down at it, she sees the flat peak of it—a cap—and sees the razor blades sewn down at the hem. Tommy drapes a coat over her shoulders, and sighs, “You’re going to take his fuckin’ eyes.”_

She could still feel the roughness of the tweed fabric in her hand, and the cold metal of the blades. She remembers having taken that man’s eyes—and the fire it had lit in her belly. One she’d never squashed. That was what it meant to be a Peaky Blinder—that heat that made its way into your bones made it so you’d never find rest.

Hannah’d woken up to the sputtering of the car’s engine, just as Tommy shut it off in front of Arrow House. She hadn’t noticed the urgency of his action until he’d flung the door open and ran out. 

When she sat up, she could see Finn in the doorway, looking rather frantic. 

She too, flies out of the car, and up to the pair. 

Tommy’s got his large hands on either side of Finn’s face, “Are you alright? What’s happened? Why are you here? Where’s Charlie?” 

“M’fine. Ch-Charlie’s here, with me. I brought some of the Lees with me, just in case we were being followed. But Tom—John’s been shot at again.” 

“What?” Hannah gasps.

“He’s alright—Dr. Pendergrass is with him. He’d gone back to the country to pick up some things for the kids and Esme, and they’d gotten ambushed.” 

“What of Arthur? Polly?” Tommy breathes out shakily. 

“They’re alright, Tom. I heard about the men at Hannah’s flat, so everyone is on their way here. I figured it was safer.” He nods, “I’ve handled it.”

“Aye,” Tommy nods, relief in his voice, and claps his hand on Finn’s shoulder again. “Yes. Yes, you’ve handled it. I’m glad you’ve handled it, Finn.”

A little smile quirks at the corner of the boy’s lip, but he quickly coughs, to cover it. 

“C’mon, both of you,” Tommy swipes his hat off of his head with a grunt, “We’re better off inside.” 

Finn and Hannah watch him take the steps into the foyer, before tossing his hat down on the floor and hollering, “_Frances!_ _Whiskey?”_

* * *

John arrives first, and fortunately, the bullet had only grazed his shoulder. The doctor had already stitched him up and given him something for the pain, which instead of making him sleepy, made him talkative. 

“It’s gonna take a whole lot more than a gun to kill me, Love.” He’d patted a large hand on Hannah’s head—probably having intended to pat her shoulder. 

Then,Arthur arrived, looking a whole lot more confused than Hannah thinks she’s ever seen the eldest Shelby son.Polly arrived after, with an entire caravan of Lee boys behind her, and meets them all in the office. 

“What the bloody hell happened here?” Polly demanded, waltzing through Tommy’s office doors with a glare. “Why is Hannah bleeding?”

Tommy, across the office, looks back at Hannah, “I told you to get that cleaned up before she got here.” 

“I couldn’t be bothered.” She deadpans, looking down at the glass of whiskey in her hand. 

Silence cloaked them all. Hannah always seemed to havesomething to say, so they’d waited, but when she didn’t speak further, the silence seemed to hurt more. 

“Where’s Ada?” Tommy asks.

“She came with me.” Arthur supplies. “She’s with the children.” 

“Tommy,” Polly’s eyes shut, the anger coming off of her at an insane rate. “Please tell me you haven’t done what I think you have.” 

Tommy lets out a sigh. 

Arthur piped up now, “No, no, no, _no_, Tom. Is that—is that why Hannah’s bleeding?” 

“We agreed that we wouldn’t!” Polly shouts. “We took a vote!”

And like that—Hannah understood. 

She _had_ been bait. 

And strangely enough, she wasn’t even upset. She understood. In Tommy’s place—between a rock and an exceptionally fucking hard place—she understood the sacrifice. 

She would have done the same thing. 

“It’s my fault,” Hannah pipes up. Arthur attempts to interrupt her, but she continues, “Tommy asked me to stay put, and I hadn’t. I put you all in danger, and got John shot. So please, let’s just get on with it, yeah?” 

“It’s not your fault, Hannah.” Tommy says, but doesn’t meet her eyes.

“Yeah, Love.” John drawls from his place on the couch, “I’ve lost track of how many shots I’ve taken.” 

“Right.” Hannah says quietly. “Well, what’s the plan then? Since we’re done keeping secrets. Let me help as best I can.” 

Polly looks at Tom, seeing his hesitance, and either to spite him or to help relieve some of Hannah’s guilt, she nods, “Very well. Mr. Gold and his men have managed to pick off most of the lads he brought with him from the States.” 

Tommy lights a cigarette, and the sound of the lighter clicking shut makes all of them look over at him. He takes a long drag from it, before asking, “And just how do you know of Mr. Gold’s conquests, dear Aunt Polly?”

Polly doesn’t blush—she never blushes, always saw it as a sign of weakness to show embarrassment—and instead straightens her posture and smiles at him.Her eyes cut to Hannah, then back to him, “You’ve some idea, Tom.” 

Hannah didn’t have to wonder what that had meant, but it did make her wonder why everyone was so convinced she wanted to shag Thomas Shelby. Had she given them the impression somehow? Still, it didn’t settle right in her gut, she already felt hopelessly transparent in front of him, now she was learning that they _all_ saw through her?

“Spill it, Hannah.” Tommy says around his cigarette.

“Pardon?” 

“Go on, say whatever it is you’re thinking.” He gestures to her, “It’s probably more than we’ve got.”

“Well, I,” She pauses, looking at the faces of the people assembled. 

Arthur looks hopeful, Polly a bit peeved, John still riding the wave of laudanum and whatever else the doctor had given him, and for once since this whole debacle began, she couldn’t get a read on Tommy. 

“I’m just thinking, right?” She huffs, “You wanted us all on Watery Lane because it would be easier to protect us?”

“Yes,”

“Well, what's the difference if we’re all here?” She furrows her brow. “Same stakes, still home turf, innit?”

“I suppose so,”

“Well, only difference is that he’ll think he’s run us out of Small Heath. He’ll think he’s shook us, sent us scurrying out of the city into the countryside.” She shrugs. “Let’s play into his hands, let him think he’s done just that, and wait for him to come. We’ll be ready when he does.” 

Tommy takes another long drawl from his cigarette, but doesn’t take his eyes off of Hannah. 

“Unless, you think it’s better to—”

Tommy interrupts, his heavy voice easily masking hers, “All in favor of Hannah’s plan?” 

Polly and Arthur both sent their hands up without a second thought. Tom’s hand slowly joined them. 

“Look at that, Hannah.” Polly arches her eyebrow, her voice laced with sarcasm. “I can’t remember the last time this family voted on something unanimously.” 

Hannah smiles gently, but she still felt Tommy’s eyes on her; and felt that heavy, foggy feeling inside, and just knew that there was no denying it anymore, Tommy Shelby was its cause.

* * *

The following days went by quietly. No sign of the Italians in Warwickshire, nor in Small Heath. Birmingham was completely, and utterly quiet.

Hannah had begun to wonder if her plan had been a mistake. 

Something felt wrong, almost like that eerie calm before a storm—except, the Shelbys were anything but calm. The women began bickering with one another, the men grew restless as well—even the Peaky boys around the house had clearly checked their weapons one too many times to feel safe. 

Everyone was going stir crazy.

So she made her way to Tommy’s study, not unlike a dog with its tail between its legs, to rethink their strategy. 

She knocked twice on the giant door, and heard him call for her to come in. 

“Hannah,” He breathes out heavily, “Come,” 

“Tom.” She makes her way towards his desk. “Things are escalating, it seems.” 

“Linda and Ada have never gotten along.” He waves a hand. “Don’t worry about those two.” 

“It’s not just them.” She frowns. “Everyone’s tired of hiding.” 

He looks up at her curiously, “And what would you have me do about that?”

“I don’t—” She takes a breath, looking away from him. His eyes were dangerous to look at that long. “I’m just suggesting, perhaps we consider another strategy.” 

“It’s hardly been two days.” 

“And they’ve been enough to drive your family mad.” 

“No.” He says simply.

“No?”

“No.” He sits back in his chair. “You were right. We need to convince Changretta that he’s scared us into hiding. He’ll move in on us, eventually.” 

“And what if he doesn’t? I’ve got to say,” She hums, “It feels a lot like we’ve sieged ourselves here, Tom.” 

“We’ll survive.” He says, dismissively.

She nods. “Right, well. I’ll leave you to it.” 

“You aren’t going to ring your husband?” He asks, not looking up from his papers. 

“Sorry?”

He’s quiet for a moment, but then he does look up, with those beaming icy eyes, and gives her a look at made her want to hide under a rock. “I know about your calls.” 

She folds her arms across her chest. “Am I not to contact my husband, Thomas?”

“S'_Tommy_.” He corrects her with a huff. “I didn’t say you couldn’t. As a matter of fact, I’m asking if you didn’t plan to, before retiring for the night.” 

She glares at him, feeling the warm sizzle of her temper awakening. “He’s working the night shift at the hospital.” 

“And you won’t call him there?” He asks.

Her teeth grit together. “Not while he’s working.” 

Tom purses his lips. “I see.” 

“Do you, now?” She shoots back, leaning forward, towards his desk. “Anything more for you, Inspector Shelby?” 

“No, I think that’s it.” He says with a bit of a smile. 

“Do you have _any_ boundaries—”

“Do I look like someone who respects boundaries?” He quips back, then rises from his seat, inching around to stand in front of Hannah. 

He wasn’t a tall man—but most people were taller than Hannah. She looks up at him with the fiercest glare she could muster, but he doesn’t balk, like Daniel would have. He keeps coming _closer_. 

“Thomas,” She tries to warn him. 

“_Tommy_” He corrects her again. 

They were close enough to touch now, Hannah’s back to his desk, and Tommy almost standing between her legs. If she weren’t careful, she’d end up knocking his things off of the desk with her bum. 

“I don’t understand you, Tommy.” She whispers, forcing herself to look at his shoulder, and not his eyes. Looking at his eyes would break her resolve.

“I’m afraid I don’t, either.” He says.

“Any woman.” She huffs. “Any woman in the fuckin’ country, you could have. You could snap your fingers and have any fucking woman.” 

His voice is low, just a throaty rumble. “Almost any woman.” He reminds her, and settles his large hand on her shoulder. 

She should have flinched. She should have shoved him off and away from her. 

But she didn’t.

His hand felt warm and familiar, and as much as she hated to admit it, she wanted it there. 

After realizing where her thoughts were headed, she clears her throat, and crosses her arms over her chest. 

“Thomas Shelby, why do you always _insist_ on wanting the things you can’t have?”

He cracks a smile and a soft little laugh escapes him. That makes her look at him, which was a fatal mistake. 

“Because,” He hums, and their noses almost touch. “I’m a bad, dumb man.”

“Tommy—”

“Hannah Addison,” She hums her surname, “Why do _you_ always insist on preventing yourself from having the things we _both_ know that you want?”

His lips skim her cheek, and the warmth of his chest made her want to melt. 

She didn’t even have an answer to his question. 

When she’d asked, Tommy had quickly replied, because he was a man who was intimately familiar with his truth—and he had no problem with laying it all out on the table. Hannah, however, didn’t have the luxury of living like that anymore. What on earth was she doing? She was a married woman. For fuck's sake, just a few short weeks ago, she'd been contemplating settling permanently somewhere in the states, giving Daniel the darling children he so badly wanted, and taking up less dangerous hobbies. 

Tommy's thumb skims her hip, and good _God_, she suddenly couldn't imagine wanting to sit in a house all fucking day _knitting_.

She wanted _this_, the excitement of Italian hitmen, the warmth of whiskey in endless supply, and houses filled with Shelby laughter. She wanted _him_.

For a split second, she wishes she'd never left all those years ago.

"Tell me to stop, and I will." Tommy murmurs in her ear, and the warmth of his breath there makes her shake. His palms go to her shoulders, sliding down and cupping her upper arms to warm her. "Say you don't want this, and I'll leave you be. Tell me to stop, and when this is over, you can go right back home to your blond doctor, and I won't send after you again." 

_Her blond doctor_. Suddenly, she could see his face his her mind, his smile, his warm welcoming voice, and realized that she couldn't do this to him. Temptation had never touched her this way, but she had taken _vows_, and to her, they meant something. Words meant nothing to the Shelbys if they weren't spoken in gypsy or written in blood. 

"S-Stop." She squeaks. 

Tommy stalls, hovering over her. She glances up at him again, at the dip in his brow that she read as confusion, and realized that he hadn't even considered the possibility she might refuse him. He doesn't move though. He stands over her, completely silent, completely still. 

"I said stop, Tommy." She whispers, and with one swift slip of her hand, she slides out from under him, and makes for the door. 

He calls her name, but she doesn’t stop. 

She leaves him there, in the quiet of his empty study, because she wouldn’t be cornered into admitting she wanted him, no matter how true it was. 


	11. "We’ll get to him.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannah meets Mr. Gold, and Daniel seems to be in trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello! I come with a little update. Be forewarned: things are going to pick up in pace real soon, and the rating will likely jump to Explicit, due to quite a bit of violence. I'll always do my best to corner it off and leave trigger warning, since I know some people would like to read without so much of the frightening stuff. 
> 
> TW: The end of this chapter contains a wee bit of gore, particularly a mafia scare tactic thats a bit gruesome. 
> 
> This is also a fairly short chapter, just to introduce and build-up our baddie. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! xx

The following days, things only got worse for the Shelbys. 

Arthur's bickering with his wife no longer stayed in their bedroom. Esme and John had begun arguing about the children. Polly and Ada were at odds about how Karl was speaking to them. Everytime Tommy walked into a room, it went quiet and terse.

It seemed as though the only Shelby nonplussed about their quarterings was Finn. The boy had simply soldiered on, continuing his duties as the youngest Shelby as they came to him; He ran around making sure the peaky boys were fed and housed, that the children weren't scared or lonely, and that his brothers weren't yet biting each other's heads off. He'd told Hannah, with the littlest of smiles, "They can fight with whomever they please, so long as they don't fight with one another. When they start throwing fists, all hell breaks loose." 

She didn't think she wanted to see that happen, for the children's sakes. 

She also hadn't put herself alone with Tommy again, but things were not going great. The family still convened for meals—in the kitchen, much to the staff's displeasure. And for the third morning in a row, once she'd sat down beside Finn, Tommy rose from his seat at the head of the table, and disappeared off into the house. Finn had been the only one to notice at first, quietly asking her if Tommy had done something to upset her. She played it cool, or so she thought, until Polly asked her the same thing, not twenty minutes later. She vehemently denied any misconduct, and although Finn may have bought it, Polly didn't believe a word. 

So she'd went about her business, which meant trying her best to make headway on the account. It was difficult, because the only phone in the house was the one in Tommy's office, and she dared not venture down that way. Instead, she sent her Lee boys, namely Leander, as he was faster, to and from London.

Finn, however, interrupted her work with a message. 

"Tommy's calling a family meeting." 

"Right now?" 

"Yes, in his study." 

She followed him down the stairs, toward the very room she'd been avoiding for days now. Peaky boys were crawling around the entryway, as well as a few unknown faces. Finn opens the door for her, but doesn't follow her in. She frowns at him, but he only shakes his head and shuts the door. 

"Have a seat, Hannah." Polly's voice is strong, almost scolding. 

When she turns around, she realizes there's a new face in the room as well. John and Polly were sat, but Arthur and Tommy were standing on either side of a man she didn't know. He'd got shaggy looking hair, and a set of slitted, steely eyes. 

"Yes, of course." She scuttles toward them, keeping an uneasy eye on them. "Have things progressed?"

"I suppose you could say so." The unknown man croons. His voice is odd—like he's speaking English out of convenience rather than practice. 

She glances at Polly, who elaborates. "This is Mr. Aberama Gold. Tommy's had him doing a bit of work for us."

"I see." She nods slowly, but she doesn't really understand. "The sort of work Mr. Solomons does? Or the sort of work the Lees do?"

"A happy middle ground." Mr. Gold lilts out. "I'll cut straight to it, Missus Hannah. Last night, your husband was not where you said he would be."

"Sorry?" 

"Hammersmith Hospital," Mr. Gold says, "He's meant to have worked the night shift, yes? Mondays and Thursdays, like you told Mr. Shelby." 

"Yes," She furrows her eyebrows, finally looking at Tommy, "I'm sorry—why were you having Daniel followed?"

Tommy's eyes are dark, and he doesn't even acknowledge her question with a glance, he just hums, "Peace of mind."

"_Peace of mind?__"_ She growls, "Tommy, you met Dan. He's a fucking doctor, not—not _whatever _you think he is. He's done nothing but help people!"

"Then where was he?" Tommy snaps. "Nurses at the hospital say he called in before his shift, saying he wouldn't be in. Car troubles." 

"Then he must have been at home." She rolls her eyes so hard, it hurts.

"He wasn't." Mr. Gold says. "His car isn't at your house. Your lovely little maid says he called her, saying he wouldn't be home for a few days." 

Dread settles in her stomach like a heavy stone. "...No,"

"Now why would Daniel lie to the people he works with, ey?" Tommy's voice is harsh, "And where would he be off to for a couple of days?" 

She pauses for a second to look at the other Shelby faces. Arthur looks perplexed—he'd never met Dan, and he didn't know what to make of the situation. Polly looked less confused—she knew Tommy had met the man, and was inclined to follow his rage, even if she didn't know that it stemmed from her rejection a few short days ago.

She closes her eyes for a second, "You can't possibly think that my Daniel has got something to do with—"

"That's precisely what I think, Mrs. Addison." Aberama starts towards her. "Unless your husband has a mistress."

She didn't mean to gasp, but she did. "Daniel is not _cheating_ on me—"

"Then where's he off to on such short notice? And why lie to his nurses?"

"Something is wrong." She looks down at her hand, at the wedding ring that had gotten turned about in all her fidgeting, and fixes it. "Daniel doesn't just up and disappear. He's not from London. He barely knows his way around the city. He wouldn't just hop off for no reason!"

Tommy makes an irritated noise, and reaches for his cigarettes. 

"Perhaps he was going to Small Heath?" Arthur offers. 

"Looking for his wife." Polly finishes his thought, and the two of them seem as though they hadn't even considered the thought.

"If there was a blond Yankee mucking about in Small Heath, we'd know about it." Tommy croaks.

"I have to find him." Hannah says quietly. "If he went to Birmingham, I have to find him." 

"Changretta wouldn't know who he was," Arthur frowns. 

"Yes, he would," She glares at Tommy. "I had Thomas take me home to pick up a few things. If he was watching us, he saw Tommy come into the house." 

Arthur was not a simple man, but he had trouble keeping his emotions off of his face; and just then, it was _very_ clearthat Tommy hadn't disclosed having met Daniel.

"I doubt he's gone after your husband." Polly whispers. 

"I don't." Aberama says, the lilt stronger now. He too, seemed confused. With the way Tommy could twist and spin things about, she was almost certain he'd told Mr. Gold something far-fetched about her husband. His voice is softer when he speaks now, "I'll have my boys check around the city. See if anyone's seen him. You're better off staying here."

"I've got to come with you—"

"_No_," Every person in the room says at once. Arthur croaks the loudest, though. "Absolutely fuckin' not. They've shot at you, twice now. 'at's not happening again. Let Mr. Gold handle it." 

"But Arthur—"

"Arthur's right." Tommy finally speaks, and for some reason, it made her blood boil. 

Polly clearly sees it on her face, and hums, "It's alright, Hannah. If he's here, Mr. Gold will find him."

"I don't understand you." She says, glaring at the side of Tommy's head, as he still refused to meet her eyes. "You sent men after my husband—and then accuse him of what? Plotting against you? He barely fucking knows you, Tommy!"

"Hannah—"

"And then, what, you try to corner me? As though I've got something to do with it, too?" Her voice rises, "So help me __God, Tommy, if Luca Changretta touches a _hair_ on my husband's head—" 

"You'll what?" Tommy snaps, "Huh? What is it you'll do to me that I haven't already done to me-self?" 

The room fell silent. 

Mr. Gold quickly excuses himself, and Polly quietly follows behind. Arthur, however, doesn't move.

"Go, Arthur." Hannah whispers. 

"No, Hannah, I don't think that's a good idea." Arthur groans, "You dunno Tommy when he get's angry. I don't want—"

"She said _go_, Arthur." Tommy says, clenching his jaw shut. 

"Right." Arthur rises, and leaves with a threat. "If I hear the slightest fuckin' bump, I'm coming back." 

Once the heavy door shuts behind him, Hannah whispers, "I don't know what's happening to you, Tommy, but you need to pull yourself together."

He screws up his face, "Nothing's happening to _me_, Hannah. It's happening to _all_ of us. It's happening to you too." 

She only continues her thought, "I dunno what you're on about, Tom," And then she notices the open decanter of gin on his desk. "And I don't know what's happening to you, but you've got to string yourself back together. I can't do this alone. Pol, John, and Arthur, your _family_ can't do this without you." 

"They have you, don't they? With your bright ideas and your gumption." He says bitterly, and falls into his chair. 

"Well, they _need_ you." She snaps back at him. "Fucking get yourself together," She huffs, shoving the stopper back into the decanter. "Stop drinking, stop fucking moping about, and get your head on right."

He stares out at her, unmoving. She tucks the decanter under her arm, and takes it with her as she leaves him there. 

* * *

Hannah was eagerly awaiting another one of Mr. Gold's updates. The day after their argument, he'd called bright and early to tell her that he'd found a few people who'd seen his car, but not Daniel himself. He was still looking, though. 

So, she did her best to preoccupy herself. Mainly, the best distraction was helping Esme Shelby with the children. 

Just then, she's sat in the nursery, watching them play on the floor. 

Charlie’s little hands barely closed on the toy horse’s torso, as he played with it the only way one could—sliding it across the floor and making clicking noised with his tongue. He’s sat on the floor with John’s younger kids, and for a moment, Hannah finds herself smiling.

As John’s littlest girl points at Charlie’s horse, the boy sends his stubby hand out to give it to her, without a second thought.Her smile widens as the boy fixes his cousin’s hands on the toy, the two of them galloping the horse along the hardwood.

She imagines Tommy at that age—was he as generous as his son? She remembers him at Karl’s age—seven or eight—with a fascination with horses just the same. She can still see his mop of dark hair, and his big, toothy smile.

How things have changed.

Finn kicks her shoe, snapping her attention up. The youngest Shelby brother had also clung to her all morning, sensing she didn't want to be left alone.

“They’re cute when they aren’t screaming.”

“They are.” She smiles.

“Do you want children?” Finn asks, looking over at her. He frowns, as though he’d suddenly realized it was an inappropriate question. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“I don’t mind, Finn.” Hannah hums, nudging his shoulder. “I do want children. Someday. Do you? ”

“I don’t think I do.” Finn’s eyebrows pinch together.

The air felt like it’d tightened around them. Hannah almost doesn’t ask him why. “Why not?”

“Can’t imagine bringing a child into this world.” Finn shrugs, casting warm eyes on the children playing on the floor. “The one we all live in, at least. Seems careless. Selfish.”

“Finn,” Hannah whispers his name, “You’d be a wonderful father.”

“I’m sure I could be,” He huffs, rising to his feet, “But for how long, Han?”

Hannah felt her heart fall. “Finn, don’t say things like that.”

But the boy had already stalled in the doorway, “I think they’re calling for you.”

When he cracked the door open, she could hear Arthur yelling, “Phone for you, Hannah!”

“Your brothers made good fathers, and I’m sure you could, too.” She pats his chest gently. “And if you keep your head up and listen to them, you’ll live to see the day your children have children.”

“Thank you for that.” He nods, but she can tell he’s still doubtful.

She hates the idea of Finn feeling so hopeless—looking towards his future and not seeing love and light, thinking of the rest of his life as a damnation rather than a blessing. She’d have to talk to Tommy about it.

At the door to Tommy’s office, she meets John, leaned against the doorjamb with a toothpick hanging out of his mouth.

“Better get your husband off the phone before Tommy gives him a piece of his mind.” John grins at him.

“Oh, God.” Hannah sighs, relieved at last. She was going to tear that man a new one, the second she got the phone in her hand walking through the giant doors, and puts on a scowl. “Tommy?” 

He doesn’t have the phone to his ear, as she’d expected him to. It’s off the hook though, cast aside on the sideboard.

“Right then, make it quick.” Tommy says, nodding to the phone on his desk. “I haven’t got all day.”

Both brothers disappear through the giant double doors to his office, “How’s it feel, ey, Tommy? Having to clear a room for someone else?”

She snaps the phone up and presses it to her ear.

“Where the hell are you?”

There’s silence from the other side of the line for a long moment, and a strangely familiar _ticking_ sound. The sound of a toothpick, clicking against teeth. Then, the sound of feet shuffling against concrete, and the muffled sound of someone yelling.

“Danny? What's happening?”

“Hm, _Danny _sends his love.” A dark voice answers.

“I—”

“Hannah Belgrave,” The voice says her name slowly. “Excuse me, Belgrave-_Addison_.”

“Sorry, can I help you?”

“My name,” The man takes a breath, “Is Luca Changretta.”

She pauses, looking towards the doorway, where John and Tommy were talking. For a fraction of a second, she thinks she sees a smile on his face. Bile rises in her throat, and she feels her fingers tighten around the phone.

“Mr. Changretta,” She tries the name on her lips. It tastes bitter. “Your reputation precedes you. How can I help you?”

He laughs, a short, sharp burst of sound, and says, “How can you help me? Dear Hannah, you’re already helping me.”

“Is that so?”

“I must say, the way your husband talked about you being brilliant—I suppose those sorts of things are subjective between man and wife, eh? Because the way he speaks of you, I’d thought you would know who it was before you’d picked the phone up.”

“I suppose, in a way, I did.”

“Pardon me, Mrs. Addison, but I felt as though we needed a _proper_ introduction. Seeing as though you've got an idea of my already knocking around in your pretty head.” He says, and snaps something in Italian that sounds suspiciously like _hurry_.

“I can’t imagine why,” She tries to sound miffed.

“You see you, too, have a reputation amongst my people. See, they think you’re some Shelby whore—but I know better.” He tuts. “You married an American man, run yourself a profitable little business, and so I said to them, I said: ‘You’re wrong, Mrs. Addison is not,_ could not_, be a Shelby whore, not like his Lizzie, or his Miriam, or any of the other whores on Watery Lane,’.”

“I can’t help but feel a ‘_but’_ coming along in your story, Mr. Changretta.”

“You’re right. I thought you were one of those brave, strong-willed women people are always going on about. Capable of living their own lives and whatnot.” he says, the sound of a dark smile coming across clearly, “But then your Peaky boys called, and you went running back to them like the faithful little bitch you are—”

“A man such as yourself understands the worth of family, no? I understand that’s what started this whole mess.” She interrupts him. “I came because the closest thing I have to a _family_ had called. Not out of loyalty or good faith as you boldy assume. Purely a gesture of respect. A job was done and I’ll return to London as early as next week.”

He continues, as though she hadn't spoken, “Nonetheless—family or fucktoy—you’re close to the Shelby brothers. And so then I thought, _‘well, I could use her’_—give you an ultimatum, Mrs. Addison, and keep you in that slum of a city to set them up. But—“

“But what?”

“Easy there,” Luca tuts, and Hannah is unsure if it’s at her, or at someone else in the room with him. “But then, Hannah, sweetheart, your loving husband told me tales. Called you loyal, said you’d rather die than cross people you loved. I gotta say, I thought he was being dramatic, but now I’m not so sure.”

“And why is that?”

“Because he’s ready to die now, convinced you won’t sell out your Blinders to save him.”

Dread sinks into her stomach, and Tommy comes through the doors, a look of fear on his face. He’s holding a little box, wrapped with a piece of red ribbon. “Hang up the phone,” He barks, dropping the box down on the sideboard. “Hang up the fucking phone, Hannah.”

“Is he?” She asks, unable to follow Tommy’s order without knowing.

“Is who what, Mrs. Addison?” Mr. Changretta coos.

“Daniel,” She barks. “Is he alive?”

He hums, and barks something in Italian, and Daniel’s scream fills her ear.

“I swear to God—“

“Good evening Mrs. Addison. Enjoy the gift I've sent you. I’ll be in touch.” He says, and the line goes dead.

Tommy’s at her side in a flash, taking the cup from her ear and replacing it on the stand. His hand is on her cheek, and he’s wiping away tears she didn’t realize had fallen.

The other Shelby brothers came into the room, asking a million questions at once until,

“Jesus Christ—“ John yelps, dropping the box down on the side table.

“What is it?” She wrenches out of Tommy’s arms, and John’s face goes pale as he realizes the question was directed at him. “What the fuck is it, John?”

“Its—uh, probably better if you don’t—”

She tries to walk towards him, where he’s now clutching the box to his chest, but Tommy grabs her around the shoulders. “It’s alright, Hannah, It’s alright, I promise you, it’ll be alright.”

"Get off of me!" She violently shrugs his hands away, tussling with him for a moment before Polly appears in the doorway calling out for him to let go of her. She continues towards John, towards the box on the sideboard, slowly. It's got her name on a tag in the prettiest calligraphy, and a black hand painted just below where the ribbon is tied to the lid.

Air is knocked clean out of her lungs with the loudest cry any of them think they’ve ever heard.

“Hannah, we’ll get to him, alright? We’ll get to him.” She doesn’t even realize it’s Tommy’s voice—he sounds a million miles away.

Tommy continues speaking, barking out orders but she doesn’t listen, she just peers into the box at a severed ring finger, with Daniel’s wedding band still in place.


	12. “I want to hear you say it, before we all have to watch it happen.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannah and Tommy clash, and Alfie comforts her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, I haven't forgotten about this fic! It's all plotted out, lol! I just haven't gotten around to finishing it. I hope to keep up and have it finished soon! xx

Hannah had lost track of the time, completely.

The last cohesive thought she remembered clearly was fainting at the sight of Changretta's 'gift'. She remembers the heavy hands that wrapped around her, that pushed her hair back and held her close to a warm, solid body. She remembers the gruff voice of Tommy Shelby, as he held her against him tightly, having expected her to grow violent. 

Only, she didn't. 

He'd grabbed her, fully prepared for her to give in to that fervid panic that would overtake anyone else in this situation; he was completely set to be bruised by balled fists and mauled by fingernails—so he'd grabbed her and held her tight to prevent her from attacking John, who'd made the mistake of letting her grab the box in the first place. 

But she didn't. 

She stood still—icily, petrifyingly still—and allowed herself to be crushed by Tommy's restraint; and that had went on for a long moment, too. The other Shelbys had gone, only after Tommy'd yelled at them to, leaving just the two of them, still in that strange, forced hold. She doesn't know just how long they'd stood like that, but she does know that it had helped. 

Whether he'd meant it to be comforting, or if he really was just holding her back from hurting anyone, she didn't know, but it had helped. 

His forearms, locking her torso against his, made her take even, shallow breaths; and at that angle, her face was pressed into the white of his linen shirt, which smelled like whatever cologne he'd begun wearing. Warm sandalwood and the salt of his skin tickled her nose—even a bit of whiskey.

"I have to get to him," She'd whispered—so gently, she didn't think he'd heard her. 

"I know." Tommy had said, just as gently, placing an open palm on the back of her head, gently keeping her head against him. "We will."

That had been the end of the morning. 

Since then, she'd been holed up in the guest bedroom—sat in an armchair, drinking until it didn't hurt to think.  The heavy, mahogany door, however, creaked open, bringing her back to the moment. 

She didn't need to look up to know it would be Tommy. 

He approaches, but she wouldn't look up at him. She couldn't. He doesn't say anything—instead electing to reach down and take the bottle of whiskey from her clammy hand. She lets him—it's only got a spit left in it. 

His voice is soft. "You're going to make yourself ill." 

After a long pause, she settles with, "I think I'd like to be ill." 

He sighs gently. "I need to know what you're thinking, Hannah." 

She smiles, but it's scornful and broken. "Don't you always? Need to know exactly what everyone's thinking, all the time?" 

He doesn't answer, so she finally looks up at him. He's looking down at her, a swirl of pity and guilt in his ice-blue eyes. 

"Would you call Frances up?" She looks down at her hands, stretching her fingers out and letting the whiskey's weight send her eyes fluttering shut—in part to see if she really was as disconnected from her body as she felt. "I'd like more whiskey."

"I think you've had enough—" 

"—Well I don't, and that's what matters, isn't it?" She snatches the bottle from his hand, draining the last bit from the bottom.

He curses under his breath, and stalks closer to her. With a soft, slow hand, he gently takes it away from her lips. His voice is like crushed velvet, “Please, talk to me.” 

“What is it you want to hear?” She whispers, her voice strained. “Hm? That this is alright? That I'm fine having roped Danny into this shit-show of a family? Or— or that I've got _faith_ in you, Tommy? Because I don't think I have it in me to lie anymore.”

“No.” 

“What is it then?” She snaps, harsher than she intended. 

“I want to hear you say it, before we all have to watch it happen.” He says quietly—cordially. As though she was a bit of business he was conceding. “We won’t hold it against you. We understand, should you decide to consider all of your cards.”

She narrows her eyes at him, grateful he'd taken the bottle from her. If he hadn't, she might have smashed it over his stupid, _thick_ head.

"After all this?" Her voice hardens, "After everything that's happened here? You still think I'd turn on you?"

"Am I really to believe you wouldn't?" His voice turns icy. "With the stakes raised the way the have? We don't have to lie here, Hannah." 

She lets her head lull against the back of the chair. She couldn't help it. A soft, broken, flutter of a laugh slips out. He _would_ find a way to make this all about him, wouldn't he? Then again, she supposed every bad thing in Birmingham seemed to start and end with Tommy Shelby. Yet her husband—a completely innocent man—was being _tortured_ somewhere, and Tommy thought it appropriate to give her _permission_ to stab him in the back. If her heart could endure any more strife, she'd take offense. 

But it couldn't. 

So she just shut her eyes and sighed.  Shelby men would always think the sun rose and set to serve them.

Her voice drops low, completely defeated now. “I’m not going to sell you out, Thomas.” 

His voice is quiet. “It seems you have to.” 

“Changretta wants me to.” She corrects. “Which means he’s expecting that I will.” 

“But Daniel—"

“Do I _really_ need to spell it out Thomas?” She snaps.

He pokes his tongue in his cheek—a look she knows from years of shared childhood. He hated being behind the curve more than anything else on this god-forsaken earth. 

“They have him—or _had_ him, if they haven’t killed him already,” She says quietly, skimming her fingers across her eyes. God, she was so tired. “Because he _wants_ us to fall apart. He _wants_ me to be angry with you because he knows it’ll divide this family up. He wants to use me to separate you, because then he’ll be able to pick you all off, one by one." Then after a soft breath that came and went with the images of Finn, Ada— _Charlie, _"I can't let that happen” 

He nods lightly, grateful that she’s not making him beg for an explanation. “Are you?”

“Am I what, Thomas?” 

“Angry with me.”

She shifts her gaze up to him, His eyes are downcast on her, but not angrily, they’re soft, begging, with a softness more fit for a child than a gangster. 

It’s a whisper, just the ghost of a word, “No.” 

“You should be.” He huffs, looking away from her. His jaw clicks shut, straining slightly.  She only watches him—the hand that settles on his hip, while the other pushes his hair back. He was gearing up for a fight with her, and she didn't know why. She doesn't blame him, she doesn't blame the family; she blames herself.  "I don't understand—what are you playing at, Hannah?"

"I'm not playing at anything." She says, "And I don't understand why you're upset with _me_. Can you maybe focus on the man who's got my husband tied-up somewhere?" 

"That's just it, Hannah." He says, stalking forward again, "I don't give a shit about your fuckin' husband."

She perked up in the chair, but didn't speak yet—because _clearly_, she'd misheard him. 

"That's just the sort of man I am, innit?" He gestures gently, "I'm pissed at you because I don't care about husbands or rules or right and wrong—as a matter of fact, I'm _glad_ you're fuckin' husband is probably dead or dying somewhere, because I'm selfish. I'm a selfish, _selfish_ man. I can admit it now." 

Hannah felt her temper jump and get lodged in her throat. She felt her fingers twitch, itching to scrape at Tommy's face—she felt her grief hard and fast, and it lit a fire under her skin that she knew she wore with a scowl. 

Yet, she restrained herself, offering a clipped warning, "_Tommy,_" 

"Because you _know_ what I want. I wanted it from the second you stepped out of that car onto Watery Lane. I didn't expect to—yet here we are—"

"—We are _here_, yelling at each other because you and your fucking _cocksure_ brothers don't know when to cut your fucking losses and walk away from fights you don't need!" She rises to her feet. "You don't get to want me, Tommy. You don't _get_ to! Not after packing me up and sending me away to make sure you wouldn't!" 

"Then _why_ are you still here!" He shouts, and the words hang heavy in the air between them. He repeats them, softer this time. "Why are you _here? _When it would be that much easier for you to find Changretta and give him exactly what he wants?" 

"I—" The words break off in her mouth. 

"Why are you sacrificing _everything?" _

_ Because you're family _ . 

She'd almost said it, but instead, the two of them stood, panting heavy breaths at each other. He wouldn't ever say it, would he? He'd never face his faults, never own up to the mistakes they both made. She could see it—this being the first of a cycle Tommy would keep them both stuck in forever. This would be their song and dance—running away from and yet somehow still chasing each other, until one of them got themselves fucking killed. 

He was right. 

He _was_ selfish. 

But so was she. 

At some point in their quiet, Arthur had gotten through the locked door and was stood, gaping at the two of them. Distantly, she realized he was talking. 

Tommy probably did too, barking out a hot, "_What?"_

"I—well, I heard the screaming. And then—well then, the quiet. I thought I'd make sure no one had gotten hurt in here."

"It's fine, Arthur," Tommy clears his throat. 

"I can—I can go, then?" Arthur offered. 

"No." Hannah whispered and started off to the door. "I'll go." 

Tommy's voice is a warning, "_Hannah_," 

"To the kitchens, Tommy." She reached for the handle to shut the door behind her, "Not to sell your fucking family's souls to the Devil." 

* * *

That evening, sleep had finally found her—but it offered no respite from her troubles. Before it came, each moment her eyes shut was met with the image of Daniel’s beaming blue eyes staring back at hers. 

At least then, awake, she could force herself to focus on the ceiling—at the intricate moldings that ran through Arrow House. While asleep, there was no running. There was no hiding place from that tortured glare. 

Just as she thinks she’d claw her own eyes out to make it all stop,a commotion rouses her from the restless sleep. Hushed arguing comes from the hallway, and like clockwork, she’s awake and got her gun drawn. 

Slowly, she follows the sounds, soon finding the culprits, Thomas and Arthur, near the front door.

Thomas’s rumbling voice is clearest. “You shouldn’t have come here—” But immediately, a far louder voice interrupts him.

“You’re going to let me in, you hear me? I need to talk with her.” Alfie Solomons' voice carries through the hallway like a song she’d wanted to hear for weeks. 

“Alfie?” She asks the long hallway, just loud enough for the sound to carry and make all three men turn their attention to her. 

Without a moment’s hesitation, Alfie brushes past the two Shelby boys and runs to her, “_Hannah,”_

His arms are around her in a second, so forcefully that the air is knocked clean out of her lungs, and she wonders just what to do with herself. It’s the warmest of embraces, soothing her fears with just the raw heat coming off of him.

“I’m so sorry, Hannah.” He murmurs into her hair, “So fuckin’ sorry, doll.”

Everything hits her at once—she no longer felt that raw comfort from his arms, just the empathy he sought to show her; and it didn’t feel like the Shelby’s pity, either. 

No, theirs came in the form of words—_just_ words—words that didn’t mean anything, not really, even if their intentions weren’t poor. Alfie’s arms meant something; that hug said everything she needed to hear, that he knew Daniel, that her pain was valid, that he understood the savagery of it all, that he knew she was completely out of other options, and most of all, that he knew how much it would hurt her.

She doesn’t hide the sob as it comes out into the lapels of his coat, “Alfie,” 

“I know, darling, I know.” 

Almost all of the strength in her body was gone—she was finally feeling everything they’d wanted her to feel in the past few days—and Alfie was essentially holding her up. “I can’t do this.”

“I know,”

“No, they’re going to kill him, Alf,” She cries, and her voice almost breaks off. “I could have stopped this—”

“Hey,” He snaps gently, forcing her attention up to his sparkling eyes, “It’s not your fault, Hannah.”

“Yes, yes it is.” She cries into his chest, “I did this to him—he didn’t deserve it, and now I can’t stop it.” 

“You loved him to pieces and he knew it, Hannah.” 

“Does it matter?” She whimpers. “He asked me to come home, and he never does that. I should have known he was in trouble—I should have gone home.”

“Sh,” He hums, lacing his fingers through her hair to cradle her head. “It’s going to be okay.”

She hadn’t remembered that they had an audience until she heard the quiet clicking of their dress shoes against the marble floors. Tilting her head up lightly, she sees them both silently enter Tommy’s study, neither of them bearing to glance back at her.


	13. “John’s not dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, it's been a minute! 
> 
> Hope everyone is staying safe and healthy. There's been some love on this story recently, so I'm back with an update :D If you've been keeping up with Always a Thief, too, that'll be updated (hopefully) in the next few days. 
> 
> This chapter is rather small--one scene in total--but it offers a bit of context the story was otherwise missing. The more explicit action and drama will return next chapter. 
> 
> Cheers! xx

After she’d taken a moment to compose herself, Alfie and Hannah joined the Shelby brothers. 

The very first thing Hannah notices is Tommy’s suit. His collar is undone, the buttons seem to be missing. The front of his shirt is creased, as if he’d fallen asleep at his desk. His eyes look tired—more tired than they normally did, which was most troubling to see in the most poised Shelby; but his voice interrupts her thoughts.

“And how did you know to come here?” Tommy’s croaky voice interrupts Alfie’s. 

“I told you. He came around to Camden Town.” He continues his story. “Throwing around ultimatums.”

“And?”

“And I would have given you lot up in a second if Iknew what he’d planned to do to Hannah.” He snaps, his voice lethally clear. “But he didn’t want you.”

Hannah stills. “What did he want, then?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “He wanted Daniel.”

“_What?_”

Hannah thinks the world has stopped in this very moment—that this was all some weird, messed up dream, and she would wake up beside Daniel at any moment—because _that?_

That betrayal was impossible. 

Alfie Solomons was not capable of hurting her. 

Her voice cracks, “You didn’t, Alfie. Tell me you didn’t.”

His face screws up slightly, and he blows out a huff of air. 

Now, rage blinded her; because this _wasn’t_ a dream. Her husband was bound and being tortured somewhere, and her oldest friend was responsible.

She throws her balled up fists at his chest, and although Arthur leaps to restrain her, Tommy stops him. “Tell me you didn’t—”

“Well of course I did, Hannah!” He snaps at her, snatching her wrists in his hands. “Of course I did! If I sent him here, he would have gotten straight to you, wouldn’t he?And then this whole damned family would be dead.”

“Bullshit!” She screams, getting entirely too close to a man with a temper like Alfie’s. “What did you get out of this? How much was my husband’s life worth to you?”

“I resent that, Danny is just as much my friend as you are. And you don’t know that he’s dead yet.”

“Luca sent mehis finger in a _box_, Alfie!” She yells, “Said he saved me his wedding band, just so I could have something to remember him by, because there won’t be anything left for me to bury.” 

“Jesus,” Alfie mutters, scrubbing his palm over his scruffy jaw. “I didn’t—”

“You didn’t think.” She snaps. “None of you ever fucking _think_.”

Silence covers them for a moment, before Arthur quietly says, “Thank you, Alfred.”

“I didn’t do this for you or your family. I did it to keep Hannah from getting killed along with you lot.”

“That’s how I meant it, you _demented Jew_.” Arthur snaps back, “Thank you—for keeping Hannah safe. At least we’ve got something in common besides wanted each other dead.”

Alfie gives a little grunt, paired with a little nod of his head.

She wanted to scream at them—_all this protection is doing me no good—_but she doesn’t; even she, in her wrath and anger, knew that the two had history. This was unprecedented behavior for the two of them.

Her respect was short-lived, though. Tommy, disheveled and broken-looking, is staring directly at her. In the low light of the early morning, his eyes look less icy, and more like the welcoming blue of Daniel’s ocean blue eyes.

She knows it’s selfish—she can feel her bones disagreeing with her head—but she drinks it in. That warm blue, that _beautiful_ blue she knew she wouldn’t ever see again—paradoxically, it was the only thing holding her together. ****

“I can’t believe I didn’t see it.” Arthur grunts, glancing between the two of them. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you, Tom?” 

Only then did his eyes tear away from Hannah’s, settling on his brother. “What?”

“You selfish, _selfish_ bastard.” He says, and Hannah doesn’t think she’d ever seen Arthur look so angry. 

And she has seen Arthur _angry_. 

“Is that why you brought her here?” He asks, taking steps closer to his younger brother. Tommy doesn’t move. “Is it!” 

Finally Tommy snaps back, “Why do you think I had her brought to Birmingham? Eh, brother? Since you think you know everything?” 

“Because you lost the only other person who would put up with your _fucking_ ego.” Arthur shouts, and it’s so loud, Hannah and Alfie flinch.

“Arthur,” Tommy warns.

“No, you needed someone—_anyone_—to what—_console_ you? Is that it? You lost your head over a woman and then dragged another one back to you? When will you understand, Tom? It’s _you_. You’re the one hurting everything and everyone around you.” 

“Arthur,” Hannah whispers, “Stop that,”

“Is that why you had to leave in the first place?” He snaps at her. “Did he—did he hurt you? Is that why you left?” 

“No—no, Arthur! Tommy wouldn’t—” She stops herself, “Tommy _didn’t!”_

Arthur scoffs, “Right,” 

“Look at me, Arthur,” She begs, “He didn’t—that’s not why I had to leave. You of all people should know—I _needed_ to leave.” 

“Because of him?” 

She glances back at him. Tommy doesn’t even attempt to defend himself. He only looks out at the two of them, barely glaring anymore. He looks tired. _So tired._

“Yes, but not because of what you think—”

“I don’t understand you, Hannah.” Arthur groans, “Can’t you see the sort of man he’s become—he’s _broken_, Hannah. He’s not our Tommy anymore.” 

“And why do you think that is?” She shouts at him, “Look at you! Look at all of us! None of us are the same, Arthur. We’ve all changed, adapted to what we need to be to survive.”

“He’s done much more than what's needed for surviving.” He says, his voice hollow. After a moment, he clears his throat and says,“I say we do what everyone’s thinking.”

She frowns at him. _Everyone?_ Had they been meeting without she and Tommy?

“Changretta wants Tommy right? Let’s give him Tommy.” 

The words sank in her stomach like a stone. She takes a shaky breath of air, and Arthur quickly shifts his eyes away from her—he couldn’t bear to look at the betrayal that plastered its way across her face. 

“You—you can’t be serious?” She asks.

He doesn’t answer her verbally, but the way he crosses his hands across his chest and grunts is more than enough for her. 

Instinctively, she reaches for the closest thing—which happens to be Tommy’s address book on the corner of his desk—and throws it square at Arthur’s chest. 

“Are you bloody well _mad!_” Her hands balls into fists, but Arthur doesn’t move, only bracing himself for the blows that wouldn’t come. “Where is your faith? What’s happened to this family that you don’t have the _barest_ of trust in one another? Where’s it gone?” 

Arthur grunts again, so she repeats her question.

“Where’s it gone, Arthur!” She demands.

And he snaps—Arthur, the softest soul of all the Shelby men, _snaps _at her. “I lost faith, or _love_, or whatever you want to call it—I lost it in the gallows, Hannah. Because _he_ sent me there, and then he _left_ me there.” 

Silence falls over the room. 

There was nothing—_absolutely_ _nothing_ left to say to that. 

She’s stuck there, chest heaving with panic, anger, and trepidation, all bundled up in tense muscles and jilted speech.

“I’ll go.” Tommy’s voice is clear. It doesn’t shake, it doesn’t waver in the slightest. 

She turns around to face him, and he looks even more broken than before.

“_No_.” Hannah barks at them. “No-one is playing into Changretta’s hands, that’s fucking final.” 

“Can’t you see, Hannah?” Arthur shouts, “Can’t you see this is his doing? He’s made his bed and it’s come time for him to lie in it.” 

“Arthur—”

“He knew full well that you’d be safe in London. He brought you here out of—I don’t even know,_ spite?_ He put you in danger out of his own selfishness, and now your entire future is at stake unless we give this man what he wants!” 

She pauses, waiting for something.

_Anything_. 

But, Tommy doesn’t deny it.

“I-Is that true?” 

He doesn’t even answer her.

“Is that why you sent her away in the first place?” Arthur growls, “Did you hurt Hannah, Tom? I swear to God, if you did—”

“You never told them.” Hannah says gently, cutting Arthur off. 

Her temper had been locked away again, kept under wraps, fed by a few fits of anger and forced deep down within her. But now? Now it was alive and roaring, and for once since this whole charade started, she found herself not on Tommy’s side. 

“All these years,” She paused, her hands literally shaking with rage, “They thought what? I’d run off on them?” 

“I didn’t tell them.” Tommy finally confirms it, but his voice is so quiet, they’d barely heard him. 

Guilt. _Shame. _That’s what that tone was. It made Hannah equally infuriated and satisfied. 

“What happened, then?” Arthur roars, “What—what made you send her away at fucking _fifteen_? God, the things that could have happened to her—”

“We were short on money. Rent was due.” Hannah says quietly. “Tommy didn’t want you all to worry. So he told me he wanted to rob the blacksmith.” 

“The blacksmith?” Arthur says, then it clicks for him, “The Watsons.” 

She nods slowly. “I told him not to. We’d already taken his son—and he wouldn’t have had enough for the rent anyhow.” 

“Hannah,” Tommy whispered, but she ignored him—lest she hit _him_ this time.

“He tried to go without me, but I followed him anyway. He got in fairly easily. I didn’t. The neighbors saw me.” She huffed a breath, “Tommy had hit him over the head and he was down—by the time I’d gotten in, he’d already gotten to the money. If I didn’t follow him, maybe things would have been alright.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Tommy whispers.

“It _is_ my fault. If I had just stayed put—”

“If you had stayed put, I would be dead.” He says, but she turns back to Arthur. He already knew how the story ended—she could tell by the look on his face.

“I only slowed him down. We argued. The blacksmith got up and grabbed me. Tommy drew his gun, but he couldn’t get a clean shot—and Mr. Watson was saying—he was saying such _horrible_ things,” She frowns, “And I saw the copper wire on his desktop. So I took it, and wrapped it around his neck.” 

“It was the only thing I could think of, Arthur.” Tommy argues, “She couldn’t just walk out the way we’d come—she had his blood through her clothes and down to her skin. They neighbors saw her come in. We’d already killed his son. Every cop in Birmingham would be looking for us. I—I didn’t think I could protect her.”

Arthur’s voice is a crotchety sound. “Did you even try?”

Hannah whispers, “Arthur—”

“No, because you see,” He makes a face, “It was _me_ _and_ _John _who dragged Mr. Watson’s body out of his shop. It was _me and Charlie _who chucked him into the cut. _We_ were the ones who handled it. And what did you do? You sent our _fifteen-year-old_ sister on a one-way train to _London_.” 

“Arthur—”

“You saved yourself, like you always do. You didn’t even _try!” _Arthur shouts, and lunges at Tommy. 

Alfie, fortunately, stepped between them, “Easy—easy, now.” 

Behind him, Hannah, too, had tried to get between them, which only served to make Arthur angrier, “How can you defend him? How can you possibly trust him after everything he’s done?” 

“Because he’s family.” Hannah yells. “I’ve already lost my husband—I refuse to lose you lot, too.” 

“_Hannah,_” Arthur shuts his eyes—and Hannah can see the pain on his face. It’s the look of a soldier who finally realizes he’s been fighting for the wrong side. 

“This—this is exactly what Changretta wants. Don’t be angry with him, Arthur. It’s in the past. Look at me,” She cradles his jaw and waits for him to reopen his eyes. “I’m fine, aye? I survived. It wasn’t right, but I fucking handled it, didn’t I? There’s nothing we can do to change it now.”

After a long moment of the two of them stood like that, Arthur’s breathing returns to normal. With a curt nod, he reaches into his jacket pocket, setting something down on the table with a loud snap.

They all look down at it. It’s a bullet. 

“When Finn called, bawling his fucking eyes out about John being shot, me and Ada assumed the worst.” 

“John’s not dead,” Alfie arches an eyebrow, honestly unsure. It was becoming difficult to keep up. _“Right?”_

“No. He isn’t.” Hannah says, her eyes focused on the little brass thing. It hurt her very soul to think—to _pray—_that one of those be her husband’s fate, rather than the endless torment she knew the Mafia was capable of. 

“But Daniel might be.” Arthur finishes quietly. 

She takes the bullet into her palm, running her fingers over the four shakily engraved letters. _JOHN. _There was probably enough room to put _DAN_ on the other side. 

Something moves in her peripheral, and she looks up at Tommy, who looks uncharacteristically worried. 

Then Arthur flicks his hand out, presenting his switchblade.

***


End file.
